Ace
by Christina Sana
Summary: Rondel Aves didn't expect to be promoted to head of security for General Organa. She didn't expect to be one of the Leia's most trusted, nor did she expect that she herself would be on the Resistance's next secret mission. And she certainly didn't expect her friendship with Poe Dameron to grow until they'd risk the mission to keep each other safe. But then again, what did she know?
1. Chapter 1

"I need to talk to the General," Rondel Aves addressed the guard standing outside the locked door to General Leia Organa's office. She didn't recognize him; he'd probably been recently promoted.

The man gave her a quick, appraising look. "She's awfully busy," he said, his voice careful, "I don't know if she's got time to see anybody."

 _Ah, yes. Of course._

Because while gentlemen may prefer blondes, they also tend to view them as about as intelligent as kalaks.

 _Them's the shakes, I guess._

Anyhow, it wasn't all bad. At any rate, her apparently overwhelmingly inane appearance earned her a horrified stare when she flashed her smile—and her badge.

Her hair had been dyed when the picture was taken, and her eyes had been a nice green instead of their normal amber color, but the hologram on the badge was clearly her, and she relished the look of shock on the guard's face.

"Trust me," she smiled still, "She'll want to see me."

"Yes, right away," the man stammered, looking unsure as to if he ought to salute. "Go right ahead, um…ma'am."

"Thank you."

It had been a long day, and it was almost done. Just this last check in.

The General was standing behind her desk—Rondel didn't think she'd ever seen the General sit—and looking furtively over the maps spread out before her. She didn't seem to notice as Rondel approached, just shuffled around the pages, then spoke without looking up.

"Have you ever been to Jakku, Aves?"

 _Not since that training regimen 6 years ago._

A canteen of water, a piece of cloth to protect her face and the promise of bragging rights if she made it to the outpost within 4 hours. She'd made it in 3.7, but had had wind burns on her lower arms and shins for the next month.

Rondel shook her head. "Several years ago, but only briefly."

Leia looked as though she might smile at that. "For that ridiculous training program, wasn't it?"

Though she too was tempted to smile, Rondel didn't respond. Some would classify the training as excessive, but it had built her, so she really couldn't complain about it.

The General was examining the maps again, leaving Rondel to her introspection. It seemed ages ago, that training, although it depended on her definition of ages. If six years ago was an eternity, then yes, it had been a while. But six years had flown, and she'd gone from recruit, to trainee, to soldier, and then again to recruit, but this time of a different variety.

She'd been shadowing the General for just over four years, doing whatever it took to keep the leader of the Resistance out of harm's way. Eventually, someone other than the man from whom she took orders had noticed, and she'd been promoted. Or titled, rather. But that was another story.

The day had been uneventful; as the head of security for General Organa, 'uneventful' was the best she could hope for. And tomorrow was sure to be a busy day. While Rondel's job wasn't one that made her privy to the General's plans, it was one that entitled her to the General's schedule, from which she could figure out the state of affairs of the base. Lazy days meant lulls between missions, hectic ones meant preparation for an attack, and quiet but intentional days meant a secret mission was in the works. The last few weeks had been very, very quiet.

"If there's nothing else, General?"

Leia looked up, finally, as if surprised that Rondel was still there. "No, go on. Excellent way you handled things in the Omicron Corridor today, by the way."

Rondel smiled. "I'll have the lieutenant check in with me once you're in your quarters?"

They spoke in code.

General Organa meant 'You impressed me', and Rondel meant 'Don't stay up too late'. All very formal and very professional, but Rondel appreciated the disguised familiarity behind it.

The General nodded slightly, going back to her maps. There was no bowing in the Resistance, no outward display of hierarchy besides the titles and authority. So Rondel turned sharply and strode out of the office, she and the General bidding each other an unspoken goodnight.

Nodding to the still-embarrassed guard outside of the office, she headed for her room. Something was building, some plan was being contrived, and she guessed tomorrow would see its fruition. But tonight meant sleep.

Or maybe it didn't.

Because three hours later, Rondel was jolted awake, and found herself glaring at the ceiling of her room, trying to focus on anything other than the way the walls were vibrating with the bass of the song being played next door.

It was a probably a great song, and probably meant a great party, but it was not a great lullaby. In fact, it sounded exactly like the type of song that had to be played so loudly it had to be shouted over. And it wasn't stopping.

 _Ace pilots aren't notorious for empathy, he probably doesn't even know he's doing it._

The thin walls did nothing to disguise the melody or rhythm of the song; she squeezed her eyes shut. If this kept up, she could have the song memorized in another ten minutes. Was she imagining that it was being played on a loop?

 _No one else on the wing seems to have a problem with it._

Else someone would've done something about the volume. 2am mustn't seem that late to the pilots whose bedrooms lined the wing with hers. Especially since they didn't have to report until 10am in the morning.

 _That's probably because no one else on the wing has to get up in two and a half hours._

She, however, was expected to rise at some unholy hour while the rest of the base continued in their blissful sleep.

Turning over, Rondel mused that four years ago, she would've balked at the thought of her room being in the most coveted wing on the base. She called it "coveted", because it was where all of the General's most trusted were housed, namely she, a few other administrators, and the aviators. And the rest of the base was either infatuated with a pilot, or wanted to be one.

It wasn't that she minded pilots—they were quick-thinkers, generally, smart and sharp, and carried about them an air of self-assurance that bordered on arrogance, all of which she generally liked in a person—it was that she minded their sleep schedule. Namely, when it disrupted hers.

The song was definitely playing over and over again.

… **You'll never know what you can do…Until you get up as high as you can go…**

She groaned, yanking the thin blanket off her body to wrap it around her head, trying to block out the sounds from the room right next to hers.

… **Out along the edges…Always where I burn to be…**

No use; her head was hammering with the bass of the song. And she knew from past experience that hitting the wall wouldn't give her any results.

Sighing dramatically, Rondel swung her feet to the floor, rolling her neck and sliding on her boots. She'd better just get this over with.

… **You'll never say hello to you…Until you get it on the red—**

The next line was interrupted by Rondel's sharp knock on the door next to hers; she slumped against it when the music didn't even falter. Pounding on the door, she rubbed at her temples with her spare hand.

"Dameron?" she called, "Come on, open up."

Nothing, except the sound of the song catching and restarting.

"I know what you're going to say," she yelled at the door, "but some of us are actually trying to sleep."

Her forearm was resting on the door and her fore _head_ was resting on the back of her arm, so she stumbled a bit when the man of the hour, nay, the resistance, suddenly swung open the door. Waves of thick dark hair, a strong jawline, dark brown eyes, and hands that reached out to steady her, before letting go of her just as quickly.

"I know; you're fine."

"I'm fine," she mumbled, at the same time.

Poe Dameron shrugged, grinned, and leaned against the door jam. "Out of curiosity, what am I going to say?"

On anyone else, the move would've been corny, but it worked for him. Most things did, apparently, judging by his near-celebrity status as a pilot.

 _And the way he fills out that Henley shirt._

Rondel cocked her head. "That if I want peace and quiet I can retire early and go live on Lothal."

He shoved his hands in his pockets, considering, then shook his head. "I would've said Takodana, but not bad."

Rondel resisted the urge to roll her eyes. The friendship between herself and the Resistance's golden boy had been an unexpected but consistent part of her time on D'Qar. "Whatever. Look, would it kill you to get a volume control or moderator or something for that monstrosity?"

"That _monstrosity_ ," he echoed indignantly, gesturing to the elaborate sound system spanning a wall behind him, "Cost me a month and a half's pay."

"It'll cost me twice that, if you don't turn it down and let me sleep in peace, and I oversleep and the General fires me."

It was Poe's turn to roll his eyes. "It's not a song you can play once, Rondel…"

"You know, I had gathered as much," she tapped her forehead for emphasis, before frowning slightly. "What are you even doing in there, with that song playing over and over again?"

"That, Miss Aves, is none of your concern."

She raised an eyebrow. "I don't know what the propriety is for, but it didn't answer the question…Wait, is it a secret? Something exotic and gossip-worthy that'll make all the new recruits pretend to like me so I'll tell them?"

"Since when are you concerned with what recruits think?"

"Rabbit trail; not falling for it."

"You brought it up—"

"Come on, what's going on?"

"Believe it or not, I didn't tell you so you'd be curious, it's just genuinely not interesting."

Rondel gasped in mock surprise. "But surely you must know that everything Poe Dameron, pilot extraordinaire, does is simply riveting."

"Man, you're tired."

Rondel snorted.

He blinked. "What?"

"Sometimes I'm terribly funny. Riveting. Like rivets? Which hold a plane together?"

Poe grinned, but shook his head. "You're not funny."

"But I am tired."

"You are."

"I am."

"It's true."

"So what're you doing?"

"Persistent, even when inordinately tired; noted. And it's not a big secret, or even a big deal…"

He pulled the door back a little further on its hinges, and Rondel could see an enormous bag, marked 'FLOUR', suspended from the ceiling. Her eyes widened and she brushed past him into the room.

"Either you're planning on making an excessively large birthday cake, or you," she whirled to face him, "are working on hand-to-hand."

"Who's birthday is even coming up?"

"Lyon Gaithers' is the day after tomorrow."

"I'm not even surprised you know that…"

Rondel didn't mean to, but she stopped listening. She'd never been in Poe's quarters before, and she was sure that later she'd regret missing the opportunity to be seriously intrusive, but for the moment, she was more focused on the energy of the room. Between the bag, the song, and the man behind her, she could feel it pulsing.

 _The secret mission—it's Poe's._

It made sense. She'd passed him on her way in and out of the General's office more times than usual this past week; it would follow that some of the intense planning had involved him. Which meant he was probably soon due to be leaving on some incredibly dangerous, probably foolhardy, escapade. Something that would greatly impact the Resistance. Something that would keep him awake at 2 in the morning, playing the same song again and again, working his nerves out on a punching bag.

 _And you're complaining about sleep._

She realized he was staring at her, waiting for her to realize she was staring at him. She coughed quickly, shook her head. "Um, Lyon doesn't eat cake anyways, so that's ridiculous," she mumbled.

Poe arched an eyebrow. "Why do I feel like your mind just went to 78 different places, before coming back to cake?"

"Probably," she fixed a smile on her face, willing herself to shake her weird mood change, "because it did."

Neither of them said anything for a minute, then Poe ducked his head.

"So you know, then," he lifted a hand to the back of his neck, running it up through his hair before letting it drop to his side again.

"I guessed," she said quietly, "Although now that you said that, yeah, I do."

 _I've never known before._

People disappeared and reappeared all the time. It was a military base and a military operation; Rondel got that. She just usually realized after the fact—after the hospital stitched up two gunners, after the pilots were back and spinning stories of their antics, after a piece of First Order intel magically materialized on their databases.

Or when Poe would tell her that he didn't need to get the cut above his eye checked out, it was fine, really.

They regarded each other for a long moment, and then Rondel drew herself up. She was not about to become that friend that dissolved in worry and fretting. She waited for her smile to feel genuine, then reached behind her for the flour bag. Spinning it lightly, she looked back at Poe, and lifted a shoulder.

"So are you going to show me what you've got?"

His face flushed with relief at the return to normalcy. "What, you think because I sit behind a throttle I don't know how to throw a punch?"

But he was smiling, and he picked up some cloth to wrap his fingers. Rondel grinned back, and braced herself behind the bag.

His first few hits surprised her. It wasn't that she had actually thought he couldn't hit—he'd been through the same training she had, and a few years before—it was that the bag was moving in a rhythm. He was used to this, good at this. She absorbed the punches with the burlap, rotating in a steady circle opposite of him, letting him get the most out of the cadence.

She had to admit, the song was good for this.

… **Highway to the danger zone…Ride into the danger zone…**

After twenty minutes or so, he stopped, breathing heavily. She pushed the bag away lightly, considering him as he unwrapped his hands.

"So, what's your call?" he jerked his chin at the bag.

"If I say 'not bad' will it go to your head?"

He laughed. "I don't think it would _hurt_ my ego…"

Rondel smiled at the sound. "Don't get carried away; I could still take you down."

"You could take anyone down, Aves, that's why you've got the job you do."

"I thought it was because of my charming personality?"

"Well it's certainly not because of your taste in music…"

He dodged her when she feigned offense and swung at his arm. With a fake bow and a flourish, Poe flipped a few switches and the song sputtered into silence, mid-refrain. She supposed graciousness was in order, but Rondel's ears rang at the silence, and she couldn't help but smile in triumph.

"My work here is done," she chirped, heading for the door.

Shaking his head, Poe followed her, reaching around her to get the door for her. As she stepped out into the hallways, Rondel turned suddenly, catching the door before it shut.

"Hey Dameron?"

His head appeared in the space between the door and the frame. "Yeah?"

"Um," she took a step back as he did the same, startled by his closeness and the suddenness of his response. "Come back in one piece, and I'll teach you how to recover after that casting punch, okay?"

The corner of his mouth quirked upwards. "Hey, who said anything's wrong with my casting punch?"

She held up her hands in mock surrender. "No one's saying anything, it's just a mess to recover from if you miss."

"See, that's the thing, Aves," he said conspiratorially, sticking his head farther out into the hall so she had to back up, "I never miss."

She wasn't sure if she imagined the wink or not, but a moment later Poe's door closed, and Rondel returned to her own room.

118 minutes before her day was supposed to begin.

As she closed the door behind her, took off her boots, unrumpled her blanket and lay down in her bunk, she realized: it was that code again. She'd meant 'be careful, be safe' and he'd meant 'don't worry, I'll be fine'. Smiling softly to herself, Rondel decided she could hardly complain about the 118 minutes. Because, honestly, she wouldn't give up a moment of the 32 she'd spent next door.


	2. Chapter 2

It was hollow consolation, but if Rondel had to hazard a guess, she'd say the General hadn't slept much the previous night either.

During her routine sweep of the General's office, Rondel noted the maps were still strewn across the large desk. Among them lay a sketch of an elderly man's face, and a few scribbles of description. She also noticed the deterioration of steady handwriting on a notepad—the General had only turned in for the night when she couldn't read her own writing.

So it had been a late night for all.

She pressed an intercom on the desk. "Barris, it's all clear in here; the General can come over now."

"You got it. On her way," the voice over the radio cracked.

Several minutes later, the doors gave their mechanical sound of acceptance, and parted for General Organa.

 _Am I an awful person, or just tired, for wishing she looked as exhausted as I feel?_

"General," she smiled brightly, for both of their sakes.

"Morning, Aves," Leia announced, striding briskly through the office and settling into her characteristic standing position behind the desk. "I know you've gone over the schedules already, but before you review them with me, you should know that I've moved my 3pm to 9:30."

Rondel blinked. "9:30, as in two minutes from now?"

"If that's alright." The General looked up, a hint of amusement in her eyes. "Late night, was it?"

 _I really need to work on that._

When she was tired, the first thing that Rondel lost was her filter; she spoke without thinking. Mercifully, the General knew by now that it was the result of sleep deprivation, not actual doubt. But it was still a little embarrassing.

"Not that late," she recovered, "I'll just step out, then, and we can go over the rest of your schedule after the meeting?"

"Actually, you'd better sit in on this one."

Rondel never just "sat in" on meetings. In the event that she was present, it was at meetings where her position was needed as a security, as a reminder to whoever the General was meeting of just how protected Leia Organa was. She had weeks of heads-up for those, weeks of planning the best way to get the General out of the room, launch herself at a potential attacker, or getting into her I-look-like-I'm-half-asleep-but-if-a-fly-lands-on-a-wall-I'm-going-to-notice-it mindset.

The doors whooshed open again, and Rondel barely registered the tall figure brushing by her into the room.

 _Why does no one else show that they haven't slept? Just me? That's fine._

"Two of my favorite people in the same room," Poe settled familiarly into a chair opposite the General's desk, "What a way to start the day."

 _Your day is just starting, bud. Mine has been going for four hours._

"Good morning, Mr. Dameron," the General positively beamed at him, before returning to the same maps and papers that had captivated her the previous night.

"Poe," Rondel mumbled. Wasn't he supposed to be out saving the galaxy? She moved to stand somewhere behind him, settling into her at-ease stance, knees bent slightly, hands locked behind her back. What else was she supposed to do? Why was she even here?

After a moment, Poe looked over his shoulder at her, his head jerking to the side, telling her to sit in the seat next to his.

 _Seriously, you can't tell he slept any less than 10 hours. What is wrong with this world._

Rondel shook her head, shortly but firmly. She didn't sit in these meetings, she just didn't. He knew that.

The General shuffled pages again; Poe jerked his chin again. She shook her head again.

 _Come on, Dameron, give me a break. You know the drill._

Although apparently he didn't, because he heaved a dramatic sigh, swinging his legs over the arm of his chair. And if that wasn't enough, he actually kicked the empty chair towards her. "Sit. Down," he hissed out of the corner of his mouth.

She was glad her jaw didn't drop, because the General looked up at the sound of the metal chair scraping across the floor. She gestured airily to the chair Poe had moved in her direction.

"Yes of course, have a seat, Aves."

She sat.

If Poe had been in a position to chortle, he probably would've done so. To be fair, if she could stick her tongue out at him without being juvenile, she probably would've done so.

"You both know why you're here, yes?" the General asked.

"Yes."

"No."

They answered her simultaneously. Poe looked as though he might laugh, and the General seemed tempted to join him. But she cleared her throat instead.

"There's a treasure map of sorts, Aves, and I'm having Mr. Dameron find it for me."

"A map to what?" Rondel asked cautiously. Poe and the General were both in on something she wasn't, and she didn't like how that felt.

"A location, but that's—"

"Above my paygrade?" As soon as the words were out, Rondel winced. "Sorry."

 _I have got to get a handle on that no-filter thing..._

Poe shrugged it off and turned to the General. "She had a late night," he said, by way of explanation, ignoring the glare Rondel shot at him.

"So this map?" Rondel interjected, before either of them could comment on her apparently obvious state of exhaustion.

"I've tasked Mr. Dameron with retrieving it for me," the General recovered smoothly. "He'll be leaving this afternoon, traveling to another system and inquiring as to its whereabouts."

 _So then why am I here?_

She didn't realize she'd spoken out loud, but Poe was looking too pleased with himself for her to have done anything other than that.

The General didn't seem to mind her bluntness though. "His T-70 can make that distance for a raid, not for an extended espionage. It can't maintain the food, supplies, or fuel needed for a potentially longer-duratiom mission. He'll need a support ship that can house his ship and carry the supplies needed."

Rondel nodded, following. Made sense. She still didn't get why...

 _Oh no._

Support ship was code for backup, and she was pretty much the end-all when it came to back-up on this base. If her job description was formally listed anywhere, Rondel was fairly certain that that's what it would read.

She didn't mean to, but she stopped listening as the General continued describing the mission. Poe's mission. Her mission. She was to go along with him, tag along really, and make sure he had what he needed to complete his mission.

 _This is so many times worse than just sitting here and waiting for him to show up again._

Because if she stayed here, she'd have things to do, ways to occupy her time. What was she supposed to do, sitting in a base ship all day? Twiddle her thumbs and try to name constellations?

She chanced a glance sideways, at Poe's profile. What was he thinking right now?

He felt the weight of her gaze, she knew he did. But he was pointedly not looking at her, and she couldn't read his thoughts without seeing his eyes.

"...so I don't anticipate it'll take you longer than a week, after which I'll expect you back here," the General was finishing. "Any questions for me?"

"Why me?" Rondel spoke before Poe got the chance too.

"Because you two trust each other," the General said simply, "and what's more, I trust the both of you. Aves, if you two do this properly, I don't have to worry that you won't be here, because I'll have no cause for worry that this base will be in jeopardy. The alternative is to send someone I'm uncertain of, and risk that the need for your job here is greater than his ability to complete the mission."

 _That makes sense. But still…_

"Who will fill in here, for me, while we're gone?"

"I think we can manage for a week."

 _Good to know that I'm playing such a pivotal role here._

"To be perfectly honest, General," Rondel chose her words carefully, "I'm not a step above capable when it comes to piloting and—"

"She's not going."

Both Rondel and the General froze at Poe's interruption.

The General recovered first; she tilted her head and shifted slightly, turning away from Rondel, who noted the subtlety of the movement. This was about to become a discussion from which she was excluded, between Ace Pilot and General, deciding her role.

"What do you mean, Dameron?" the General said slowly. It was a statement, too, much more so than a question.

"She's not going on this mission." Poe shrugged, as if it really were that simple. His expression hadn't changed, nor had his posture—still the same unaffectedness, serenity, control. His face was the picture of ease. But his eyes…they were burning.

Both she and the General saw it, felt the energy rolling off of him. Poe was not half as calm as he projected; something was boiling just beneath the surface.

He stood, suddenly. "With all due respect, General," he said quietly, "Put anyone else on the bloody base on that support ship. But Aves, she stays."

Without another look at either of them, he turned and strode swiftly out of the office.

The air rushing as the doors opened and shut seemed deafening as Rondel and the General stared at each other.

"Maybe I should—"

"Go."

She didn't know how she was going to finish her suggestion, or what the General was telling her to go do, but Rondel stood swiftly and rushed out of the office.

In the corridor, Poe was nowhere to be seen. After a moment, the guard by the door coughed suspiciously, then jerked his chin to the right. Nodding to him, she took off at a jog, following the direction of the guard.

It only took a moment to recognize the broad shoulders and messy hair in the busy-ness of the corridor. Taller than everyone else by at least a head, Poe easily cut through the flow of people. They just moved for him, stepping aside to let him pass. Rondel didn't want to think about what they were reading on his face, which made them move out of the way.

She called his name several times before finally getting close enough to grab his arm and make him acknowledge her. When she reached him, she kept going, latching on to his arm just above his elbow and yanking him out of the corridor and into an intersecting hallway.

For a moment, they didn't say anything, just stood there regarding each other. Rather, she was staring at him, trying to understand what was going on behind the impassive expression he wore. He was glaring at the floor, then the ceiling; fixating everywhere but on her.

"So are you going to tell me what that was about?" Rondel finally broke the silence, wishing her voice sounded like something other than what she was feeling—a combination of confusion, concern, and a little bit of wounded pride.

Poe crossed his arms, and a bit of her felt bad. He wasn't being petulant, or even difficult, he just genuinely didn't want to talk about it. "What do you want me to say?"

"An explanation would probably be good," she said gently.

"What's there to explain?"

 _Come on, Dameron, help me out here._

"You could start with why you don't want me on the mission. Or why you stormed out. Why you ignored me just now in the corridor or why you're not wanting to answer any of these?"

No reaction, no crack in his visage.

He lifted an arm lazily, running a hand through his hair. "I told you already, Rondel, it really is that simple. I just don't want you to be on that plane."

"Okay. Why not?"

Nothing.

 _Are we five years old? Is that what's happening?_

"Is it because I'm not a good pilot?" she prompted.

"No."

"Because I need to be here to guard the General?"

"No."

"Because there's someone else you'd rather take?"

"Look, I really don't think you understand—"

"You're right, Poe," there was no point in trying to keep the exasperation out of her voice, "I don't understand why—"

"Because I need you to be here," he half-shouted, his eyes finally meeting hers.

Rondel faltered, and silence reigned for a moment. "I need you to tell me what you mean by that."

This time, there was no laziness in the way he raked his hand through his hair. He was confused too, she realized. By his reaction, by the vehemence of it, by the reality of it. His hand fell to his side.

"Look, when I leave, when I fly, it's what I'm supposed to do. It's why I joined up, because it felt right. But these missions…they're not certain. Each time I go out, there's a moment when I realize that this flight might be my last."

 _Well, you asked for it, didn't you, Aves._

"So when I do make it back," he continued, "it's not the crazy celebrations and the joviality and the praise that make it good. Because those things remind me that it is worth celebrating that I made it, because maybe one of these times I won't. What makes it okay are the dumb little things, the things that are exactly the same when I leave and when I come back. Things like the same crappy meals at commissary, the way jet fuel gets on your suit no matter what…"

He trailed off, and Rondel blinked. This was so much more than what she'd been expecting. But she could see the truth and weight of it in his eyes. Almost smiling, she finished his thought.

"Like the obnoxious girl who bangs on your door at 2 in the morning to get you to turn down your music?"

Poe returned her almost-smile. "That's the one. I don't know how I'm supposed to feel about it, but when life goes on, it reminds you that it's still going…So. I don't mind so much when that girl gives me a black eye trying to teach me some kick, and the rest of the squadron laughs at it for months."

"Or when she tried to help you become fluent in Ryl, and only spoke in that dialect for a month, until you came clean and admitted you couldn't speak a syllable in anything other than Aurebesh."

"Or when she organized a surprise party for your 28th birthday without realizing she was a week early."

"Or when she tells a new string of recruits about how you failed your first piloting evaluation because you were so excited?"

"Now, see, I know you don't actually do that because they only think you're cool if they think I'm cool."

"Granted."

"Yeah," he grinned, then paused. "But even if you did, you get why that would be okay?"

She did.

She nodded slowly, then tilted her head. "You know, I wouldn't magically stop being that person if I piloted your supply ship."

"I know," he said quickly, his gaze slipping away again, "It's just…"

He didn't finish, and she waited for him too. When he didn't, she stepped a bit closer to him. "It's also an order. From the General. Kind of hard to ignore."

He drew in an unsteady breath. "Yeah, I know that too. That's why I ran out; I knew there wasn't a way to fight it in there. I thought maybe, out here, maybe I could."

There was no denying that. She understood him again, knew his battle. But she also knew the General's.

"Look at me," she was in front of him, and lifted her hands to frame his face, resting along his jawline and lifting his chin so their eyes met again, "You know why it's okay that I'll be on that plane with you?"

"Tell me."

His face was so close to hers, and when she smiled, she knew he saw it from her eyes, not her mouth.

"Because you're the best pilot out there," she said simply, confidently. "And there's no safer place in the galaxy for me, than with you. And, in that same enormous galaxy, there's no one better to watch your back, than me. Right?"

"You always are."

Their foreheads touched, and they stayed like that for a long while, drawing strength from each other.

In minutes, they'd have to go back to the General; in hours, they'd leave the base. In days, they'd fight, lie, and fight some more; in a week, they'd be back again. But for now, they waited, delayed. There truly wasn't a better place for them to be.

 **A/N: So I wasn't planning on updating so soon, but I had an overwhelming response from you guys, and so I had to! Please review; let me know what you're thinking! I'd love to hear from you. Do you like Rondel's character/is she good enough for Poe/how they're fitting together? Is Poe close enough to canon Poe, or am I an awful writer? Dying for the next update, or ideas for a plot twist? Let me know! Thanks, everyone!**


	3. Chapter 3

"BB-8 says you're lying."

"Yeah, well, BB-8 says a lot of things," Rondel muttered, looking over her shoulder to glare at the droid, who beeped indignantly.

She and Poe were sitting in the cockpit of the supply ship, Poe's X-wing docked in the parking bay. It wasn't a large ship, really just big enough to hold the jet, have a cockpit of its own, and a few storerooms of food, fuel, and other miscellaneous necessities. They'd been in hyperspace for several minutes, but if Rondel was being honest, and BB-8 apparently existed to ensure that she was, it felt like hours.

Poe had his legs up on the dashboard, slouching in his seat like he was dozing in his bunker. Distinctly like he wasn't hurtling through space, at the mercy of the elements and miniscule in relative worth.

Rondel, conversely, had been clutching the armrests of the copilot chair, as if they were the only things that could hold the ship together. That, and insisting that she wasn't afraid of flying, despite whatever the orange droid chirped at Poe.

"Okay, so you're not scared—"

"I'm not."

"Right," Poe quirked at eyebrow at her, "Then you'll be good to watch these controls for a minute while I go get something to drink?"

"You're not funny," she replied flatly.

"I'm hilarious," Poe sighed happily to himself, sliding further down in the seat.

"You're not. Besides, if these controls are supposed to be 'watched', shouldn't you at least make the pretense of keeping your eyes open?"

He hummed the refrain of a song, it might've been the one he'd blasted the previous night. Rondel drummed her fingers against the armrests.

"How much longer?" she tried to sound casual, but even to her own ears her voice sounded strained.

Poe cracked an eye open, then his brow furrowed. He sat up, slowly; Rondel could feel the weight of his gaze on her profile. "You actually hate this?"

"No, I decided it would be fun to pretend that this is terrifying." She ran a hand through her hair, wrinkling her nose when she caught a tangle. She didn't mean to be snappy. "Sorry," she sighed.

He shrugged. "It's fine. Um…do you want to talk it out? Or something?"

Rondel had to push back a smile; she knew he was trying to help, but he looked terribly uncomfortable. It was endearing, but anything he would tell her she'd already told herself. A million times. It still wasn't working.

"It's okay. I'm okay."

"You're not, but that's not a conversation I'd be good at, so I'm not going to push it."

"How kind of you," Rondel said drily, and Poe gave a mock bow, before hesitating.

"There's nothing I can do?" he clarified.

She did smile at him, this time, reassuringly. "Nah, you're good. It's all in my head. I just run through all that could happen and it freaks me out if I let it."

 _White lie. I guess it's better than 'not having complete control is the worst'._

"But you're on the escort for the Governor."

She knew where he was going with that. "I am."

"Isn't that a lot of flying?"

She nodded. "It is."

Poe stared at her. "So you just, what, push that down?"

"I do."

 _Two word sentences, nice touch. I'm sure he's very convinced._

"It's only hyperspace that bothers me," she offered, hoping that would make it better. It didn't.

"Aves, like 90% of flying is in hyperspace."

"Is that so?" she said conversationally.

He was still staring at her, his expression showing him to be equal parts impressed and worried. "I've flown with you before, you've never seemed…" he paused, searching for an adjective, "nervous."

"I'm a good actress."

"Yeah, see, that was not the answer I wanted."

She smiled. "Sorry. If it helps, when I fly with the General, I have bigger things to worry about than the technicalities of flight. Besides, I'm usually with her, not in the cockpit."

"Rondel, we don't have to sit in here—"

"No, it's good for me," she cut him off, lifting a hand to push him back into the chair he'd already begun to rise from.

He looked unconvinced.

"No, really, it is," she tried again.

 _No, it's really not._

She knew the ship was safe, knew Poe was a solid pilot, and knew that hyperspace was a jump that thousands of ships made every day. She even liked the efficiency of it, just casually jumping to another dimension for the sake of speed. What she didn't like was coming out of hyperspace.

There was always that moment, that pause, where the ship hovered between dimensions before bursting into cognizance, and that second was something she could never control. No one could. Which made her job of defense very, very difficult. Vulnerability wasn't something she was good at.

So for the entire trip, no matter how long, that ate away at her. And she could never talk herself out of it. She usually did a fairly good job of hiding it; the General had no idea, and up until a minute ago even Poe hadn't actually known.

He still looked unconvinced, but he settled back into the chair dutifully.

After a moment, Rondel rolled her neck. "Okay so are you going to spend this whole time trying to pretend you're not deciding whether or not I can handle it?"

"That's not what I'm doing…"

"It is. It's okay, it's good of you, but I told you I'm okay."

"You did say that."

"I did."

 _He's not going to let this go._

"Okay," she slid down in her seat, mimicking his earlier position, making herself close her eyes. "Tell me something funny, then."

"What?"

"Come on, Dameron, you've got a captive audience, how often does that happen?"

"All the time. People can't get enough of me."

 _That's probably true._

"Alright, say something clever, then."

"Are we talking one-liners or actual wit? Because the jury's out on whether I actually possess the latter."

"I'll leave the degree of hilarity up to you?"

"Dumb jokes it is then," he said, with entirely too much relish, and Rondel smiled in spite of herself.

Poe rubbed his hands together, and she could tell her was sitting up straight, looking intently at her. They were still hurtling towards uncertainty, but this was amusing. If her mind was convinced they were going to die, hopefully it wouldn't be in the wake of a bantha pun.

"Okay," he said solemnly, "What did the Jedi say to the sheep?"

"May the force be with ewe," she replied without thinking.

"Come on, at least pretend to play along."

"Right, sorry. I have no idea! Whatever could it be?"

"You're just loads of fun at parties, aren't you?"

"Bushels. Got any others?"

"You're demanding when you're pretending to be fine. Why is the droid mechanic never lonely?"

She thought about it for a minute, coming up blank. "Why?"

"Because he's always making new friends."

She grimaced. "Now who's fun at parties."

"Don't you know it. What do Gungans put things in?"

"Oh no, don't say it—"

"Jar Jars."

"I was afraid that's where that was going." Her eyes were still shut, but she could picture him grinning.

"Hey, you brought this upon yourself."

"Too true."

"What's the difference between an ATAT and a stormtrooper?"

"I haven't a clue."

"One's an Imperial walker and the other is a walking Imperial."

Rondel cracked an eye open at him. "That's almost impressive."

"I can see you're convulsing with laughter."

"Indeed. It's a miracle I can even speak straight. Not bad, Dameron."

"Thanks. I pride myself on my impeccable sense of humor."

"Hmm. Not your 'absolutely beautiful smile, devil-may-care attitude, or _gorgeous_ eyes'?"

Poe made a face. "You're never going to let that go, are you?"

"Give me a few millennia, then we'll see."

Years ago, Poe had been instructing a group of pilot-hopefuls on decoding messages with classified intel. It backfired when, a few weeks later, Rondel caught several recruits testing their new skill by passing notes during her session outlining the finer points of breaking a nose. When she'd decoded it, she was delighted to find the conversation was just short of an ode to their favorite instructor, and all his virtues. Poe had all but blushed when he found out about it, but Rondel thought it was hilarious.

"You just like to enjoy my misery."

"Oh, yes, how terribly miserable it must be to have waves of new recruits, all equally starstruck and smitten," Rondel teased.

"No one is starstruck," Poe insisted, looking slightly uncomfortable. "Besides, it's more weird than complementary…"

"If it makes you feel any better, it's intrinsic to the job."

"What does that mean?"

 _Ah, Dameron. So innocent as to the workings of the teenage recruit mind._

"Pilot—daring, brave, sweeping in to save the day. It's already implied before they meet you."

"Well what's implied with Head of Security, then?"

Rondel formed a loose fist with her hand and tapped her jawline with it. "Can take a hit."

"Come on, there's more to it than that."

"Oh I know that. You know that. They don't, though, not right off the bat. It makes the first session kind of funny."

"Funny?"

"Sure," she shrugged, "It's always a good time, taking down the but-you-can't-be-the-instructor-you're-half-my-size kid."

"You don't 'take down' recruits."

"Not as a rule. But sometimes it has to be done…" she sighed melodramatically.

Poe grinned. "You're a menace."

"Fair. But I don't have poems written about me."

"Oh come on, you don't know that."

Rondel tilted her head. "I have yet to read a sonnet about an impressive stranglehold, Dameron."

"That's not what I meant."

He said it very quietly, almost like he hadn't meant for the words to escape his mouth. He sat up straight, then, looking over the dashboard, toggling switches that Rondel knew full well needed no tampering.

"What did you mean?" she asked curiously. Not because she was dumb, but because, for some reason, his answer suddenly seemed very, very important.

His hands stilled over the controls, and his gaze shifted from the glass to her face. For a long moment, he stared at her, and Rondel couldn't read his expression.

 _Okay, so his eyes are gorgeous._

Then the corners of his mouth turned upwards in a soft smile. In one quick motion, he flipped a switch on the dashboard, before the same hand drifted up to her face. His thumb brushed her chin, and he grinned.

"Don't push for compliments, Aves. And you can stop gripping those armrests like there's no tomorrow; we're out of hyperspace."

And so they were.

He looked incredibly pleased with himself, so she smiled easily back at him, making some inane remark about time flying or dragging or something that made him laugh.

Internally, her mind was still in hyperspace, trying to figure out why, for the first time ever, she hadn't noticed the jump back down.

 **A/N: Here it is, the next installment! This one's a little shorter, but it was either going to be on the short side and just cover their flight, or a small novel with their first adventure on Jakku. Thanks to everyone who reviewed! Keep it up! Thanks everyone, and Happy New Year!**


	4. Chapter 4

It had been a while since she'd seen a good old-fashioned bar fight. Even longer since she'd instigated one.

Rondel squared her shoulders, blowing out a quick breath before pushing open the doors to Ergel's Bar.

The smoke was thick, a pervasive and offensive biosphere of its own, consistent with the type of creatures you'd expect to find in a place called Ergel's Bar. Or in a town called Cratertown. Or just on Jakku.

A three-player group plunked a mournful song on tired instruments, their expressions duller than the faces of the few slumped in rickety chairs in front of the stage. Everything in the place was dirty, or seemed that way, from the way the clouded haze hung in the air, to the patrons who looked in need of a bout of sobriety, to the grime-coated glasses hanging behind the bar.

 _Typical._

The Uthuthma that Rondel guessed to be the bar's namesake (she recognized him from the grubby graphic next to the sign on top of the cantina), was eying her from behind the bar, pretending to be polishing an urn of some sort that he'd picked up as soon as she walked in. His socket-eyes flickered between Rondel and the vase. Not that he was the only one watching her.

As soon as the doors had swing shut behind her, patrons had been exchanging furtive glances between each other, eyes darting from Rondel to the barkeeper, to the back of the cantina. If she had to wager a guess, that's where the First Order men were, in a back room of some sort.

Trying not to grimace at the acrid liquid in oil cans on the tables, Rondel weaved her way over to the bar.

"Tell me you serve something other than Knockback Nectar, Ergel," she said casually, perching on a stool with the least stains at the bar, "I've heard horrible and wonderful things about the stuff."

"Afraid not," the bartender said, shrugging, "Want a can anyways?"

 _No thanks, I like my liver functional. Say nothing of my colon…_

But she held her tongue.

"Maybe next time," she said instead.

The Uthuthma grunted, and went back to the urn.

Rondel settled more firmly onto the stool looking around and taking stock of the environment. She had 51 minutes before Poe would be back; she needed every edge she could get.

After she and Poe had docked on Jakku, the pilot had been busy running post-flight checks on the ships when the base had sent in their alarm. Apparently, Order pilots had spotted them, and were circling; they'd start investigating soon. Rondel figured the Order didn't know who was on their ship; if they did, there wouldn't be much of a ship left at all, just more metal for the scavengers of Jakku to sort through.

She was advised to make sure the Stormtroopers didn't send a report back.

Then she understood.

Anyone could've piloted Poe's backup crew. Anyone could follow him around, toting supplies. But her mission, was simple, and unique. His was to find the map. Hers was to make sure he lived to do it.

He didn't think anything of it when she asked him to perform a quick reconnaissance run around the planet.

She'd started her mental timer the minute his X-Wing started its engines. She had just over an hour to find the Order soldiers, remove them, and get back to the ship before Poe returned. If everything went well, he'd never know she'd been gone.

Resistance intelligence had placed the soldiers in Cratertown, and Rondel had guessed they'd take a break sooner or later at Ergel's. If the nervousness of the bartender was any indication, she was right.

 _48 minutes to make this seem legitimate…_

The problem wasn't taking out Stormtroopers. If she wanted she could do that with the ship's cannons. The problem was taking them out without anyone knowing anything was being taken anywhere. In laymen's terms, it had to look like an accident.

She turned in circles on the stool, running through the bar's patrons in her mind. Everyone seemed villainous, tired, and borderline irate, which was just about perfect. Or it would be, if she could work out the snarls in the plan currently coursing through her mind. Specifically, the snarls that entailed her breaking her nose.

She hopped off her stool and strode over to the back corner, where a Hanadak and an anchorite were playing a game of Dejarik. Lucky for her, the Hanadak was losing, and badly. Well, 'lucky' in the same way that it was 'perfect' that everyone in Ergel's seemed innately angry. Bear and baboon did not a pretty mixture make, and here she was, about to pick a fight with the Hanadak all the same.

The Hanadak lost a player and Rondel snorted. It earned her a look of annoyance from the beast, but nothing else.

 _Come on, you're supposed to have one of the quickest tempers in the galaxy…_

After the next play, Rondel reached across the Hanadak for his can of Knockback Nectar.

"You don't mind, do you?" she asked, arching an eyebrow, "It's just that you're losing so badly, and someone might as well enjoy a good drink."

With that, she raised the repulsive liquid to her mouth, gave a sarcastic salute, and swallowed. It burned and she had to fight the urge to gag, but to both of the players, it was as casual a motion as if she'd tossed back water. She nodded to the Hanadak.

He looked for a moment as though he might rise to the bait, but instead glowered at her, before refocusing on the board. He lost his next player and Rondel gave as belligerant a laugh as she could manage, before pretending to school her mirth at the Hanadak's expense.

They continued for several plays, the Hanadak losing players and Rondel taunting him, until the holographic Hanadak fell to a wookie, and Rondel burst with laughter—and her next swig of Knockback Nectar. The Hanadak's expression grew darker as he looked between his obliterated board and his white tunic, now stained with the pungent drink.

Rondel wiped her mouth as obnoxiously as she could, grinning maniacally. "Who's going to buy me a new drink," she crowed, "I can't be the only one enjoying this."

With a roar, the Hanadak swung at her, his mammoth paw came down hard on the chair where she'd been sitting, sending it to splinters. The crash resounded through the bar and everyone that hadn't already been watching snapped to attention as the blonde dodged easily away.

In the motion, the rest of the oil can tipped, splattering the remaining Knockback Nectar onto the soiled tunic. "Whoops," she said, her voice sounding everything but apologetic. Against the back of her legs, she felt another table. If memory served her correctly…

It did.

The Hanadak's next blow, when it came, landed squarely on the head of a sleeping Veermok. At least, he had been sleeping. The blow roused him from his slumber and he rose with a roar, swinging a glass he'd been clutching in his sleep. It shattered over the Hanadak's head with a satisfying smash. The next thing the gorilla threw was the table itself. It missed the Hanadak by a mile, but landed in the middle of another game of Derajik.

 _Bingo._

The entirety of Ergel's gave a collective roar of disapproval, and a full-out brawl erupted. The air was split with the sounds of furry claws connecting with reptilian skin, horns and teeth were flashing everywhere. Larger creatures were beating each other with Scurriers, the floor was slick with spilled Knockback Nectar. Rondel would've gloated, but she was too busy avoiding the glass exploding around the room like confetti.

 _Alright, let's have some company in three...two...one…_

The back door banged open and the Order guards froze at the sight of the mayhem before them. Then they scattered, charging into the fray, trying to separate the fighting.

 _Perfect timing, boys._

Cutting her way across the room, Rondel screamed just in front of the first guard, pitching herself towards him as if she'd just been hit. When he went down, his team saw him stumbling under the unsteady weight of an inebriated girl. They probably should've looked closer; maybe they would've noticed when he didn't get back up.

The second Stormtrooper was handled with the careful help of Ergel's polished urn: it shattered nicely over the pristine helmet, and the soldier wavered impressively before crumbling.

The third saw her coming, and swung his blaster like a club.

 _Haven't done this in a while._

"You know, bludgeoning is not an injury I considered," she muttered, wrenching the leg off an overturned chair. "Alright, let's go."

He swung the blaster over his head, before aiming at her head. She ducked; the blow connected with a body behind her. It was like a crude form of dueling, blocking each other's clubs and faking one way and then the next to expose a new target. The Stormtrooper attacked steadily, backing her away from the brawl. He was stronger than she, and had the advantage of height; she fell for the feint.

Before she could recover, the blaster was a blur of black, inches from her head. She raised the chair leg to block its path, too slow, a yell escaped through her gritted teeth as she heard the dull crack in her left wrist, bent beyond its reach. The wood fell to the floor as she recoiled. She could all but see him grinning through that mask, as he lifted the blaster for the final blow.

She ducked quickly, diving under his arm and driving her elbow unto his exposed side. He grunted and she pushed past him, kicking backwards. Her foot caught his leg at exactly the wrong, or right, depending on your perspective, angle; his leg torqued and he fell. Rondel looked up and had just enough time to roll away, out of the wrecking path of two interlocked Moufs. The bear-like creatures tore at each other, claws and fangs shredding each other and their surroundings. The Stormtrooper was lost under the frenzied shuffle of paws.

 _One more._

The door to the cantina creaked; Rondel winced at the beacon of light as the door swung open and shut. A quick sweep of the writhing room confirmed her suspicions: soldier number four was bailing.

She tipped the closest thing handy—in this case, yet another vat of Knockback Nectar—onto the scuffling Moufs; they subconsciously shifted farther from her, rolling off of an armored arm. Rondel snatched the blaster from the downed Stormtrooper. She usually carried her own, but to walk into a place like Ergel's with one would be asking for a fight. Which would be wrong. And definitely something she would never do. Ever.

Rondel spun quickly, testing her wrist as she sprinted towards the door. Her fingers were pale, and the swelling and bruising did not promise a pretty picture tomorrow. She wasn't even going to deal with the pain just yet. Good news, it was a clean break; she could set it and hide it under a long shirt. Bad news, it would mean she'd be fighting single-handed for the next two months. Which really wasn't an option.

Blinking at the light difference outside of the cantina, Rondel scanned the street quickly, her eyes lighting on a retreating black and white figure. She could chase him down; she could definitely move faster than him. Or she could try something else.

She tossed the blaster onto Ergel's roof. She could totally make that. A water trough, a Luggabeast and the raingutters (what, did they think it might rain?!) were her makeshift stairs; Rondel's running start and improvised steps vaulted her to the roof, with her good hand and her legs, she hauled herself up.

Jumping between the roofs of the shops, she ran parallel to the Stormtrooper. Then she took a hard left. She ran for a few moments, then dropped flat on the roof, the blaster in front of her. She lay still as the desert, closed her eyes, listening.

The air was filled with the regular din of a market: bartering, yelling, some animal squawking and some child squealing. Doors clanged open and shut, oil sizzled in vats, a clay pot smashed and a man fast-talked an unsuspecting customer.

When she'd first started with the Resistance, Rondel knew some of her peers thought she knew something about the Force. The way she could sense when something was about to go down, when someone unexpected appeared, when a contingency arose. Rondel knew she had no ties to the Force, and she didn't really wish she did. After all, she didn't need it: she was already very, very good at what she did.

 _There._

It was the breathing that gave him away, the muffled, heavy breath of a person trying to disguise their shallow wind. It echoed in her head, rose above the noise of the market. She waited. Followed the thick breath, followed it as it trod away from children, away from civilians, as he slunk into an empty stall. Her eyes closed, flat on the roof, she saw him, glaring at each passerby, trying to recognize the girl from the cantina. She sat up, opened her eyes, found him, the heavy breath held and then silenced. She climbed down from the roof, dropping the blaster next to the Stormtrooper.

 _19 minutes._

Clutching her wrist, Rondel started off at a steady jog for the ship. She and Poe had hidden it in some old wreckage outside of the town. She was almost back to it when she heard a telltale rumbling, building, and a plane flew entirely too close to her head.

Fixing her expression to one of laughing surprise, Rondel looked up, waving Poe off with her good hand. When he went around for a second pass, she broke into a run. To him, she was sure it looked like she was running for cover. In reality, she was just thinking, over and over, that she had to set her wrist before he saw it.

He must've had a good flight; he was down in the dock with his shop for a good twenty minutes after he docked her.

 _Probably polishing it and whispering sweet nothings._

She'd long ago gotten over her surprise at the time/energy Poe invested in his bird. It made sense, though: trust your life to a thing, you make sure that thing is in the best form it should be.

 _Except with that mentality, you shouldn't have a shattered wrist._

Shattered was a bit dramatic; if it were shattered, they were done. So Rondel decided it was broken, and fixed it up accordingly, disguising the splint underneath a baggy, thick overcoat. It should be fine. It'd be fine. She took a painkiller, just to be sure.

"If every day goes as well as this one, we'll be home in five days instead of seven," Poe's voice preceded him as he worked his way through the plane. "Where are you, Aves?"

 _Reflecting on how 'well' today went._

Telling herself to snap out of it, and that she'd feel the effects of the painkiller soon enough, Rondel shook her head. "Kitchen," she yelled back, curling her hands strategically around a mug of something hot. After drinking that monstrosity at Ergel's, her taste buds weren't as discriminating as they'd been before.

"So," Poe plunked down on the other side of the table. "Guess what I found today."

"A flock of bloggings that recognized you as their long lost brother?"

He made a face. "What? No…"

She shook her head, resisting the urge to rub her temples. Was this pill even working? "Sorry. I meant like you fly and they fly…wow, you're so clever, Rondel," she raised an eyebrow pointedly.

"Wow, you're so clever, Rondel," he parroted obediently.

She smiled, in spite of herself. "Okay, now I'm actually sorry. What did you find today?"

"Tuanal."

She sat up. It was the city they were supposed to visit later, pursuing a lead of the General's. The Resistance had sent in the coordinates, but only after Poe had left. "Wait, really? Already?"

Poe's grinned, leaning back in his seat, stretching lazily. "All in a day's work."

Rondel had to smile at his antics. He was proud of himself, as well he ought to be. That was impressive. One of them deserved a good day, at least.

"So where were you rushing back from, when I beat you back?"

 _And you thought he wouldn't ask._

"I didn't know it was a competition," she demures.

"Everything's a competition."

She laughed. "Of course it is. And I think you had the more rewarding day; I took a trip to Ergel's."

 _Half truth, that has to count for something, right?_

He clutched his chest dramatically, as he stood and headed for the cabinets. 'You went without me? I'm wounded, Aves, devastated."

"You'll recover," she said drily.

"From what I hear, the house specialty is something brutal."

"You've been listening to the right people," she mumbled, draining the mug.

Poe was looking through the cabinets, rooting through the supplies. "You hungry?"

"Not terribly."

He looked over at her. "You went out without me _and_ you ate without me?"

"No," she nodded to her mug, "but between Ergel's and this, I'm not very hungry."

"Fair enough. Are you done with that?"

"Hmm?"

"The mug. I can take it—"

Before she could react, he reached to take the mug from her hands and, though Rondel had tried to steel her expression, she couldn't hide the wince when the mug jerked her wrist as it changed hands.

He froze.

His mouth opened and closed; she saw the questions play across his face. Without saying anything, he set the mug down carefully, and reached back for her hand. Timid was never a word with which she would've described Poe Dameron, but she couldn't place his expression as anything else as he carefully rolled back her sleeve. His jaw tensed when he saw her splint.

He gently released her hand, and silently walked across the kitchen. For a long moment, he stood, facing away from her. She noticed his hands were clenched at his sides.

"Who did this?" he asked quietly.

 _Oh, that is so not the question I needed you to ask._

"Um…"

He spun suddenly, and crossed the room to stand in front of her again. She didn't know what she expected him to say, or do, but it wasn't stand there, staring at her, looking at her like that.

Like whoever had done that to her couldn't run far enough or fast enough. Like he couldn't stand the thought of someone laying a finger on her. Like he cared.

A million lies ran through her head. She fell, her grip slipped while fixing something in the hanger, she's strained it lifting a carton of water …

She pursed her lips.

He'd see through that in a second.

So she didn't say anything.

He heaved a frustrated sigh after a minute, turning away from her, before looking back. "Riddle me this," he said quietly, in a voice she didn't recognize, "What if I'd come in too low, flying in just now, and you'd fallen?"

"But you didn't—"

"What if," his voice was louder, and he took a step closer, his eyes blazing, "What if I'd opened the door too quickly, and had thrown you off balance?"

"Poe that isn't—"

"Or, what if whoever did this to you had hit their target? What if your wrist hadn't blocked them, and they'd actually hit you?"

She blinked. "How do you know they weren't aiming for my wrist?"

"You're too good for someone to go for your wrist. They were going for you, Rondel, actually going for you, and you," he broke off, laughing in the way people do when absolutely nothing is funny, "And you wouldn't tell me if they did."

"That's not my job!" she burst, before she could stop the words.

Understanding flashed across his face, and he rocked back on his heels. "Base didn't ask me to run a reconnaissance mission, did they?"

She shook her head, slowly.

"You already have the coordinates for Tuanal."

It wasn't a question, but she nodded.

"How many were there?"

"Four."

He swore, turning away from her again. "See this, this is exactly why I didn't want you to come."

She knew she was tired, in pain, and a little numb from the painkiller and the Knockback Nectar. She knew he didn't mean to sound angry at her, that he was really just surprised, alarmed, and if he was mad at anyone, it was himself. But something in her reacted to his certainty that she shouldn't be there.

"Why, because you knew I could do my job? Sorry, Poe, but last time I checked, it's my job to go stick my head in front of a blaster, if it means that whoever is behind me can be safe!"

"That's supposed to make this better, how?"

"There's nothing to make better," she snapped, "You're the one making a big deal out of nothing, and making me feel bad about—"

"Nothing? You broke your wrist, Rondel!" he shouted, "You took out four First Order operatives and I had no idea it was happening!"

"So? That's my job, that's what I do. That's between the General and I; you don't factor into that decision!"

"I don't, huh?" his voice was quiet again, and she couldn't read his expression.

Just like that, the fire burned out behind her eyes. What were they even fighting about? "Okay, wait, that's not what I meant…"

Poe held up a hand, shaking his head, backed up slowly. He paused at the door, his back to her, face turned so she could distinguish his profile. "I'll get you some ice," he said quietly, "And then I have to do some work on my ship."

And before she could call him back, he ducked out into the corridor, and was gone.

 **A/N: Okay, so a few things. First, just for the record, I'm writing this as I go; I'm not just holding back updates until I get reviews or views. Just saying. Second, I hope I got all these aliens right? Having never read the comics, I think I did a good job with what I found on the Wikipedia page, but then again I'm also biased. So sorry to any diehards, if I got something wrong! Third, hope you like it!**


	5. Chapter 5

Rondel found him in the hangar, all but his feet blocked from sight, presumably performing some sort of maintenance on the underbelly of his plane. There was a rhythmic turning of a wrench, but other than that, no sound between him. If he'd heard her footsteps, or even knew she was there, he made no move to stop his work.

"I talked to the General," he said, at length, almost conversationally.

She hadn't known where this conversation was supposed to go, but she did know it wasn't supposed to start there. In her mind, it'd begun with an apology on her part, then hopefully him coming out from underneath the X-wing. Then maybe they could go back to normal.

It'd been half a day since their argument in the kitchen, and, while Rondel wouldn't call what either of them were doing 'sulking', it certainly wasn't a convivial atmosphere. They'd gone their separate ways and she'd intended to sleep it off, but although she was completely exhausted, her eyes just refused to shut. She'd heard the reverberating sounds of metal on metal, and knew he was awake too.

"What did she say?" she hoped her voice sounded normal.

"That," there was a clang, and Rondel wondered if it due to was maintenance or frustration, "she understands why I'm upset, but that she thought I would've caught on by now."

She winced. "By 'caught on', I assume you, or she, mean my purpose on this mission?"

Another clang.

"By 'your purpose', I assume you that you, or she, mean that you're not here to pilot this ship, but to play body-guard while I play spy," he shot back.

Another clang, then the sound of turning.

"I don't think either of us are playing, at this point," she said quietly.

The wrench stilled.

"I guess not. Which," there was the sounds of wheels spinning, and a dolly emerged from under the plane; Poe stood quickly, "is essentially what the General said."

He went over to a toolbox propped against a wall, rooting through it. He found what he was looking for in the toolbox, positioned himself back on the dolly, and disappeared again under the ship

"If it helps," she pretended she wasn't addressing his feet, "I didn't realize it at first, either."

"You know, it really doesn't."

"Any idea what would?" she tried again.

Another clang, then silence, then another.

Rondel ran a hand through her hair. "Look, Dameron, I came down here to apologize—"

"There's nothing to apologize for," he said, shortly, "it's your job and—"

"I know, that's what I realized. I don't think I have anything to apologize for, other than maybe speaking without thinking, and neither do you."

"Okay."

 _It's like he's trying to make this harder._

"Okay. So why is this weird, then?"

He didn't say anything.

Rondel pursed her lips; this wasn't getting them anywhere.

There was another dolly at the end of the hangar, but Rondel was in work clothes anyways, so she just dropped to the ground and army crawled under the ship, careful to favor her right arm. When she was finally next to him, she flipped over, staring up at the metal belly.

She watched his hands and the tools in them, but couldn't assign a purpose to his actions. Mechanics had never been her strong suit, so at length she gave up.

"Hypothetically," he said steadily, "if I tighten _this_ enough, it'll pinch _that_ pipe above it, which'll twerk the angle, and mess up the dynamics of the cooling system."

"Mess up in a good way?"

"Ultimately, yeah. The first time I take her up, though, it'll probably be touch and go for a while. It just means some adjusting for her, which makes for tough going for a bit, but she'll roll out of it okay."

Rondel reflected for a moment, before turning her head to face him. Because he was raised above her on the dolly, she could really only see his profile, and she wasn't sure if she imagined his eyes flicking in her direction, until he realized his peripherals couldn't subtly check behind and beneath him.

"Was that a metaphor?" she asked his profile.

His eyebrows lifted with his shoulders. "Wasn't a very good one, if you have to ask."

"So am I the pipe?"

"No, I think I'm the pipe."

"No, you're the thing being tightened."

"I guess, although technically that's a pipe too."

"Really?"

"If it looks like a duck, quacks—"

"Alright, alright. Am I the wrench then?"

"Wouldn't that be the General?"

"Probably. Where am I, then?"

He considered the mess of machinery for a second, then tapped a gold wire, wedged behind all the metalwork. "Follow that."

He lay the wrench on his chest and kicked himself backwards on the dolly. Rondel rolled over onto her stomach and crawled behind him, pulling herself up near the center of the plane. The gold wire disappeared up into the plane, and reemerged for a glimpse, before winding into a swiveling barrel. She smiled.

"I'm the guns?"

"And you said I wasn't good at metaphors."

"I think it was you who said that."

He shrugged. "Sometimes I amaze even myself."

Any of seven quick retorts ran through her head, but Rondel winced as she pulled her wrist up to rest on her stomach. She'd been able to get away with using her forearms and other hand for almost everything, but a broken wrist doesn't need aggravation to ache.

"Hang on a sec." He kicked again, and the dolly flew out from beneath the plane, bearing him with it. She tilted her head back to watch his feet as he stood quickly, then kicked the dolly away. Rolling over, Rondel was about to start her halted crawl out when a hand joined the silhouette Poe's feet cast.

"Come on."

She blinked in surprise, but offered her right hand for Poe to pull her out from under the plane.

"Thanks," she mumbled, when they were both standing. He nodded, and then she remembered to take her hand back. "Um, so what does this mean, now? Are we good?"

"We're always good, Aves."

 _God, I hope so._

But she said, "You know what I meant. What happens to the mission?"

He pulled a rag off the hood of the plane to wipe his hands of grease, then offered it to her. She took it as a reflex, but didn't use it.

"It goes on, doesn't it? We find this Lor San Tekkar and head back to base. You get to spin horror stories of how your broke that," he jerked his chin at her wrist.

 _So we really are okay. He just has some getting-used-to to do._

She smiled. "Alright then. If we head out just before breakfast tomorrow, we should have time to get some sleep in between now and then, before Ergel decides he should report what happened."

"Sounds good." He took the rag back and stuck it in his back pocket. After a pause, he took it out again, folded and unfolded it. "What did happen?"

"That," she reached for the rag and folded it smartly, then handed it back to him with a pointed look, "is a story you can hear with the rest of the squadron back at D'Qar."

"It was worth a shot."

"It was," she smiled slightly. "Hey, if our goal is five days instead of seven, let's focus on that, yeah?"

"Yeah. And hoping every day goes as smoothly as today?"

They were calling back to the earlier conversation, and Rondel resisted the urge to comment that, wrist injury aside, the day had been quite successful. Some people would probably argue that even with the break, it was an overall net good day.

"As smoothly as today," she echoed.

Tomorrow would be a new day, and Rondel knew they'd face it with a new mindset. They'd both needed today, to figure out their roles. Tomorrow was when the real work began.

She realized they'd been standing for a good while, their minds probably on similar tracks, and their thoughts parallel. She couldn't read his face, but she felt his contemplation. Shaking herself slightly, she stepped back. He mirrored the motion, nodding slightly.

This was goodnight.

 _At this point, what do you even say?_

It was her turn to mirror him, nodding. He got it. There'd been enough words for today, enough discovered and spoken. He bent to rifle once again through the tool kit, and Rondel drifted towards the door of the hangar.

"Tekka," she called over her shoulder.

There was a pause, and she knew he was running through all the possible ways he could've misheard her, before giving up. "Come again?"

"The elder," her mouth quirked, "his name is San Tekka. No 'r'."

Again a pause.

"Oh shut up."

She grinned. "See you tomorrow, Dameron."

"It'll be a long day, Aves; rest up."

Maybe it was the delayed response of the painkiller finally kicking in. Maybe it was the physical exhaustion finally sinking in, or the tiredness that comes with emotional relief. Regardless, Rondel didn't think anything of their closing words as she retreated to her bunk.

Yet, over the next week, she'd kick herself for not pushing for a more parallel response. Because that night she did indeed rest, and it was, in fact, a long day. But she wouldn't see Dameron.


	6. Chapter 6

There are three reasons for alarms to sound across a ship.

One: Mayday. An attack-be it forced entry, unwarranted intrusion or even natural anomaly-on a ship will cause the sirens to trip, alerting the crew of the dangers afoot, and the shields will raise on their own. The sirens won't stop until the algorithms in the system can confirm that all perceived threats had been eradicated.

Two: Panne. Something is terribly, terribly wrong with the mechanics of the ship, something even the droids can't fix. Panne means that the ship has two minutes before it will fall out of the sky, unless the issue is addressed and reversed.

Three: Tocsin. It isn't a distress or a premonition, it is the technological equivalent of firing a gun in the air to grab the pilot's attention. It means everything that could be wrong is wrong, and that nothing was more important than responding to a tocsin.

Mayday was a call to pilots to man their posts, Panne was a call to mechanics to keep the ship on course, Tocsin was a call to anyone who could hear it.

It was the sirens that woke her up; the ship shaking with the alarms and the pulsing red lights. Rondel's eyes opened at the first sounding of the alarm, and instinct took over before she could process what was happening. She felt the cool floor of the ship on her bare feet as she headed to the control room.

Rondel burst into the cockpit, standing in Poe's seat and flipping all the controls off of their auto-positions. A quick diagnostic and nothing wasn't working, everything was checking in. Pressure was fine, doors and airlocks secure, no sign of tampering with the shields or external weaponry. Not Panne.

 _The headset._

"Dameron, get in here," Rondel yelled down the passageway, as she fumbled for the pilot's headset that connected him to the command center. Even before the device was on her head, she could hear voices crackling through the static. The predominant voice on the line was practically shouting into the speaker, and she could hear the frantic clamor of the control room behind him.

"Black Leader, Black Leader, Black Leader, this is Command Center, over. Come in. Black Leader, Black Lea-"

"Command Center, this is Aves," Rondel broke in.

"Aves? Thank God; General!" Rondel winced as the voice on the line shouted across the room. "General we've got them."

 _What is this? What is going on?_

She cleared her throat, trying to remember the jargon that pilots used under pressure. "Command, this is Aves; request briefing for the Mayday and advised action. Over."

"Black Leader, this is Command; Mayday has been issued due to rumored attacks at Tuanal. Over."

Tuanal? The town where Dameron and I are supposed to pick up the map from San Tekka?

Rondel covered her mouthpiece with her hand, turning to the entry way. "Dameron, let's go!" she yelled again down the corridor. Now was not the time for him to indulge in beauty sleep.

"Command, this is Aves. When you say rumored attacks-"

"He means get your plane off the ground, Commander."

 _Organa_.

Rondel blanched, both at the General's tone and her breach of protocol.

"Copied," she said quickly. She glanced behind her; Poe still hadn't made an appearance. She felt a pang of worry; whatever was keeping him had to be legitimate. For a moment, she wavered-check on Poe or get the ship airborne.

"Now, Black Leader!"

At the General's order, Rondel swiveled again in her chair, this time locking her seat in and seizing the controls in front of her. It'd been a while since her flight simulation days, but things couldn't have changed that much, right?

Taking a steadying breath, she clicked the final disengage button, and she felt the ship lurch underneath her. Trying to shift most of the weight to her non-injured arm, Rondel jerked the controls and the ship heaved accordingly.

 _Graceful or easy, this will not be._

"Standby," she gritted into the microphone.

The wailing sirens shut off when the engine engaged and she released a nervous breath as the steady hum of power grew to a roar. The red lights were still flashing, and Rondel switched her attentions to the control panel, throwing every lever she could remember the meaning for. The engines were still building and the ship began to shake with pent up power.

 _Here goes nothing_.

She pulled back as hard as she could, ignoring the stab of pain as her wrist protested, and the ship flew forward. The ship's cover blasted off as it shot out of their hiding place; Rondel realized that the darkness in the ship's window had been the result of the hour of the day, not their disguise. It must've been early morning still, as everything was dark and shrouded in a cool calm. Pulling back, Rondel aimed the ship upwards; she felt the vessel complain at the sudden change of direction, but it shuddered slightly and obeyed. More switches, more warning alarms from the panel and then they cleared Jakku's atmosphere. Rondel sank back into her seat as autopilot reengaged and she felt the collective relief of the command center.

"Command, this is Aves," she said quietly, "Black Leader is in orbit above Jakku. Proceed home or wait for confirmations of attack on Tuanal? Over."

"Black Leader, this is command," It was the original operator, rather than the General, sounding very relieved. "Come back to base. Well done, Aves. Didn't know if you could make it out of there without Dameron."

He could've meant that he was impressed that she'd gotten the ship off the ground. He could've meant that he didn't think she could fly at all, and that she would've needed the help of an ace pilot. Or...

"Command, this is Aves. Say again, about Commander Dameron? Over."

The line was silent.

Rondel cleared her throat. "Command?"

The radio clicked and there was the sound of muffled speech behind a covered mouthpiece.

"Say again, over," Rondel tried again, rising in her seat, looking though the window at the planet beneath her.

More muffled speech over the radio, but no response from the operator.

"Put the General on." Rondel spun from the seat, her headset still connected as she ran from the cockpit towards Dameron's room. She could almost see him: lazily opening the door, peering out at her groggily and muttering something about not letting him get any rest. Maybe her mind painted the picture so vividly because it was trying to distract her from the fact that is wasn't reality-the door remained shut.

The recourse probably should've been to knock, maybe a couple of times, then find and enter in the override code on the panel...Rondel drew a blaster and a moment later the door whisked open.

The room was empty.

"Where is he?" her voice was quiet, even to her own ears and the muttering on the radio went silent.

Rondel whirled around and ran towards the hangar. The General wouldn't have done this to her; Poe wouldn't have done this to her.

No gleaming black X-wing greeted her; the hangar was empty.

 _Rumored attacks over Tuanal_.

Rondel stalked back to the cockpit. "Put. The General. On."

There was a hesitation, a crackle, and a muffled pause then the radio cleared. "Black Leader, this is Organa. Over."

Rondel sat in the chair, pressing a few buttons on the console as she swiveled to see Jakku stretched beneath her.

"You knew he wasn't on the ship," she said steadily.

There was a beat before the General spoke. "You'd never have left if I had told you he wasn't."

"I assume the reason we know of the attacks on Tuanal is because of Commander Dameron?"

"Aves-"

"What is his status?" Her voice was sharper than she had intended, but Rondel couldn't bring herself to regret it. Poe had snuck out, tried to get to San Tokka on his own, and the General had found out about it too late. So, it would seem, had she.

"General?" She worked at keeping her tone steady.

"The transmitter in his X-wing has been destroyed and as of fifteen minutes ago Commander Dameron and his BB-8 have been unaccounted for."

"Confirmed dead?"

She had to know.

"Unaccounted for," repeated the General. After a pause, Organa continued. "Aves, I know this is difficult. I just lost my best pilot. Best case, he's dead, and died quickly; worst, the Order has him, in which case, it's only a matter of time before they find their way back to our base. I need you here, now."

"Poe's not dead."

The General hesitated. "Aves, this is bigger than us. I need you back at base, we have a lot to do before they come for us."

Rondel drew a steadying breath, looking down at the planet beneath her, trying to understand. The words the General was saying made sense, it was their meaning and the calculated cost behind them, that Rondel couldn't grasp.

He could be dead.

He could be on the planet, bleeding out somewhere. His corpse could be cold already. He could be in an Order ship, headed to unspeakable tortures that would make him denounce the location of their base. He could be lying in Tuanal, struck down by an Order soldier who didn't know what Rebel he had just taken. Too many "coulds".

Rondel felt her hands drifting over the controls, resting on levers and switches, her eyes unblinking at the barren planet.

"When his mission failed," she said slowly, "You issued a mayday and called me back, away from Jakku and Tuanal."

"You wouldn't have left otherwise. Bring the ship back to the base, Aves."

Rondel nodded slowly. "So my mission has changed, then."

"Affirmative."

 _Right_.

Clenching her eyes shut, Rondel shoved the lever forward, ignoring her wrist and the engine that heaved as she altered the ship's direction. The control panels sprung back to life and the ship heaved as it jolted off of autopilot.

"Aves, our readings are saying that you-"

The ship exploded back towards the planet's surface, and Rondel yanked the headset off of her head. The ship shook with the effort of the hasty re-entry, but she angled it towards Tuanal, hoping the coordinates base had sent her earlier were accurate. As the headset clattered to the floor, Rondel couldn't help but think that if Dameron disappearing warranted Mayday, then this was definitely Tocsin.


	7. Chapter 7

As it went, she didn't need the coordinates; the moment Rondel saw the smoke spiraling on the horizon, she knew she'd found Tuanal.

She kept the ship high for her preliminary sweep, mostly just checking to make sure there were no Order ships still in the area. When she went in for her landing, the smoke and haze of early dawn clouded the windows at the front of the ship, and Rondel let the autopilot functions settle the ship on the dessert. It was disconcerting to not be able to see anything out of her front windows, a fact only heightened by the reality that whatever was outside her ship could determine the future of the Resistance, much less her and Poe. Telling herself to stop aggravating her wrist, to ignore the headset on the floor and the persistent beeping of the monitors Command Center could control, and to just get it over with, Rondel steeled herself at the entrance of the ship. She tapped in the code, and the door hissed open to Tuanal.

 _Oh my god._

Rondel was no stranger to hard sights. She hadn't joined the resistance with a gilded view of war, nor had she, since her enlistment, been shielded from the atrocities committed by the Order. Her role was that of a soldier and a protector; a large part of her job meant facing the ugly, so others could be spared the burden. But no amount of training, practice, experience or fights in her belt could've prepared Rondel for the devastation stretched out before her.

First was the stench.

Everything that hasn't been already reduced to ashes was smoldering. The air was thick with the smoke of dozens of fires, set to every structure of the settlement. Scraps of fabric waved where awnings had once stretched, their jagged edges ending abruptly where fire had severed their weave. And above the charred smell of torched buildings, the smoke rose. It carried in its smells a hundred stories-bread being set aside early in the morning, clothes laid out the night before, wooden benches on which the villagers would've studied, learned, philosophized. No more. Because the smoke carried another acrid story, a final one, that Rondel recoiled upon recognizing. It was charcoal and sulfur, putrid and nauseating, distinctively pointing her to an awful sight in the town square.

Rondel's step was steady as she exited the ship, moving slowly through the thick air, but her external calm was countered by the pounding rhythm of her heart.

The villagers.

They lay where they had fallen, robes fluttering in the desert wind. Rondel had learned long ago to avoid the glazed stare of a corpse, but it was impossible to avert her gaze when the town was littered with bodies. Men and children, women and spiritual leaders, crumpled. Rondel's eyes met the darkened eyes of the villagers and she knew she could never forget each of them. From the empty stares, she found the face that matched the drawing on the General's desk: Lor San Tekka. He was distanced from the rest of the villagers, laid in a way where Rondel could almost imagine the way the scene had played out. She knew her mind would run her through all the possible outcomes later, when she was able to process instead of react.

And then there was the silence.

There was no echo of pain. No moans of prolonged misery emanated from the pile of bodies in the center of the square, no mournful sounds of loss and pain. No one wept for the fallen or wailed for their own pain. Rondel clenched her eyes shut and tried to stop her own breathing from echoing so loudly in her ears.

The sound reverberated because it was alone.

No one else drew breath.

It had the Order written all over it-in its awful injustice, in its gruesome efficiency, in its calculated thoroughness. She knew better than to look: there wouldn't be so much as a dog left alive.

Call it macabre or her job, Rondel sank to the ground next to the fallen San Tekka. She crossed her legs as she sat, calming herself, her eyes scanning every surface. She'd make sense of all this later, but for now she had her mission.

If only she had the force.

She could pick up on the Lor's aura or something, figure out what his last thoughts were. See the meaning in the scramble of the Orders' footprints in the sand or know where they had gone. Or even if they'd gotten what they wanted. Say nothing of what she could know by now about Poe. As it was, she has no such strength.

 _Come on, think._

Stormtroopers decimate a spiritual community, why? They could just be bullies, but the desolation of an entire settlement with no provocation seemed excessive, even for the Order. More likely they were looking for something. Someone, maybe? They could've gotten wind of Lor San Tekka's map, just as the General had. Or maybe they just knew she was looking for something he had. A treasure hunt gone deadly seemed fitting.

Or they knew Poe.

It would be hard to miss him. Maybe he'd stayed low for a while, trying to figure out a way to draw the Order away from the community. Then the attack had started and he'd given up on anonymity, running into the heat of it.

 _Idiot._

She rubbed her temples. How could he think for a second that revealing his presence would teach the Order mercy? That they would spare a village for him? Dameron was a smart guy, but he was a pilot-he erred on the side of heroics. He should've kept low, slipped into his X-wing and disappeared. The village still might have fallen, but maybe they wouldn't have gotten him.

 _His X-wing._

Rondel hadn't seen it when she'd landed, hadn't expected to. Poe would've camouflaged it if he had the time, hidden it if he didn't. She took a breath and looked again into the face of Lor San Tekka. Her guess was right: his eyes were fixed in a different direction than the rest of his face was laid-in death, he had looked towards his deliverance. Standing, Rondel made a mental trajectory of the Lor's gaze; sure enough, it led to a cropping of what had once been a barricade, beyond which she could see the glint of machinery.

She made her way over to the ship.

The engines were a charred mess, but that was hardly a surprise. If it had been able to fly, even on the slightest technicality, Poe could've gotten out of there. Or maybe he wouldn't have. She shook her head, trailing her fingers over the exterior of the plane. She found the dock for BB-8; to her relief it was disengaged. At least the droid hadn't been forced from the underbelly of the plane. Poe had probably sent BB-8 away, in some sort of 'At least one of us can escape' gesture. Maybe the droid really had made it to safety.

There really wasn't much to be done.

She'd eventually have to go back to the ship, and answer for her deliberate disregard of the General's orders. She'd dutifully pilot the plane back home and then deal with whatever repercussions came with doing the exact opposite of what the Resistance asked of her.

This ship would be the first thing he'd ask about, if he came back.

When he came back.

She'd bring it with her, it was really the least she could do. The engines were shot, but maybe she could disengage the manual brake. If she turned the gravitational beam on in the supply ship, it should be enough to pull Poe's ship back to its docking bay.

It worked.

Back on the bigger ship, Rondel reached into the cockpit to switch the brake back on. She hadn't been able to bring herself to climb into the cockpit, and it took some fumbling. She'd have to get into the plane to leverage it. Trying not to think about it, Rondel lofted herself into Poe's seat. Once in the cockpit, with her weight and the proper angle, the brake slipped easily into place.

She didn't get out of the cockpit.

If she closed her eyes, she could imagine him there. Standing beside the plane, pretending to be upset that she was in his seat. But he wasn't here. He was somewhere with the Order.

That was one plus from her little excursion: she could confirm to the General that Dameron hadn't gone down with his ship. He and BB-8 truly were unaccounted for. It wasn't much, but it was not dead, so she'd take it.

She vaulted herself out of the plane.

The hangar door closed slowly, mechanically. It felt very final and Rondel wished it didn't. She'd be back at the base soon, the best mechanics would do their best to repair the damage to Poe's X-wing. The General would be upset, but she'd understand, and they'd go about preparing a defense and evasion. It wouldn't be until after they knew Poe's fate for sure that they could deal with the implications—even then, they'd have to put aside whatever emotions there were until afterwards.

 _After what?_

 _Enough of that._

Rondel shook herself, and turned away from the X-wing. She headed across the hangar.

Settling into the cockpit of the supply ship, Rondel eyed the headset on the ground. Much as she wanted to sit in a trance in the pilot's seat, running everything through her mind, she'd have to deal with it eventually…

Just as her fingers touched the headset, Rondel froze as a bit of a memory flitted through her head.

 _It could be nothing._

But nothing didn't blink like a Shenim.

The Resistance could wait another two minutes while she played a hunch.

Rondel walked quickly back to Poe's plane, taking a slow breath before she peaked again into the cockpit.

Sure enough, a blue light pulsed slightly under the wheel. She covered her mouth. He'd left a Shenim.

A Shenim was like a black box, or a failsafe note that pilots could record. It was a voice recording that would survive a crash or virtually anything else a plane could go through. Usually it would transmit back to the Resistance base; pilots used them to record messages from last-minute distress calls to descriptions of an attacking force or a mission when they couldn't get anyone on the line. A green light meant that the message had sent. Blue meant that it was being stored on the actual plane.

Rondel pressed the release button.

"So if you're getting this, Aves, I need you to not be too mad at me."

It was his voice.

Rondel sagged against the plane; he'd left her a message. She held her breath as the voice continued.

"It's 0300 hours and I'm about to head out for Tuanal. That's probably redundant; if you're getting this, things went south at Tuanal. But I'm assuming they will anyways, which is why I have to go now. There's no point in waiting till morning for us both to go, so we can both get killed. There's only one of me, and I move faster alone."

 _You're also exposed, if you're alone._

"I know what you'd say, that I'm exposed or something if I'm alone. And maybe that's true, but come on, Aves, what's better: me being potentially unprotected or both of us? And yeah, you like the odds of two of us versus…well, versus whatever might be in Tuanal. But I don't. You said your job is to protect me, and I know that's what the General told you."

 _It is my job._

"Well this is my job, too. To serve and to fight, that's the oath we gave when we joined up. Sometimes fighting doesn't mean a battle for an entire planet, or a base, or even the General. Sometimes it just means protecting someone who you…"

He coughed.

"I mean, you can't be too surprised about this. Remember, I wanted you to stay on the base."

 _Yeah, and those Stormtroopers at Ergel's would've already made rubble out of you._

"Anyways, I should be back before you get up; hopefully I erase this before you realize the hangar's empty. You can get mad at me then, okay?"

There were a few quiet beeps over the recording, and Rondel recognized BB-8's chirping.

"Yeah I know," Poe's voice was quieter now, and the droid whirred away. "BB-8's right, if we don't take off soon, then we'll have this conversation in person, and then you really won't let me go."

 _I really wouldn't have._

"If you do get this, though…you know what that means. Tell the Resistance to set their scanners for BB-8's specs, not mine. I know you'd fight me on that, but think about it."

He paused and half-laughed.

"Seriously, Aves, think about it; I know you didn't listen the first time."

 _He's right._

BB-8 would have whatever information the General wanted. BB-8 could survive much more than a pilot, even Poe, could. BB-8 had a much larger chance, statistically and logically, to make it out. Just because those were the odds, it didn't mean she liked them.

"Okay. Well, I guess, sleep tight, and I'll see you in a few hours. If not…well, then I'll see you in a few days. Something like that. Watch out for that wrist and tell Gaithers that he better be nice to this plane when he's fixing it up. She'll only take naptha-kerosene, there's a concoction from Blowback Town that's something else; tell him if he puts an ounce of petrol in her, I'll skin him."

BB-8 beeped again.

"Yeah. Seriously though, Aves: the fuel and that wrist, okay? Okay. See you in a bit."

And the Shenim ended.

 **A/N: Hey fam! Please review; I know is been a while! I have a couple of ideas from this point on, but I want to know what y'all are hoping to read :)**


	8. Chapter 8

It wasn't like she had the luxury of moping.

The base felt different; from the moment the ship's engines shut off amidst the mechanical whirring of the docking bay, it was different. Not because someone was missing, or _just_ because of it, but because that someone going missing happen to mean the imminent arrival of the Order. No one would know why Poe had gone, or why she had tagged along, but they would all notice that two went and one returned.

Speaking of rebellions, the General had yet to address hers. Rondel assumed she was waiting for the storm to pass, or at least calm, since both of them knew that any sort of disciplinary action was moot in the face of an Order attack. So, she assumed, they would work together until the danger had passed, and then whatever correction was due, would come.

In the mean time, there was work to be done.

Lookouts and rotations to be scheduled, sentries to be briefed, protocols to be reviewed and lots of technical checks. Rondel met with new recruits, to be the face and example of seasoned fighter, and with veterans, to hear their reports and let them know if anything was different between now and the last time they thought it might be the end. Reviews of personnel and plans, testing of weapons and young nerves. Anything that could possibly be done to make sure their counterattack would be successful.

It was a special kind of exhaustion that Rondel fought off, after a briefing with a particularly inquisitive group of recruits. It went without saying that, in the face of recent events, Rondel was hardly the authority on obeying protocols, but she was also the head of security on the base. There wasn't much the newbies could recommend by way of defense that she hadn't already thought of, tested, or implemented. She got that they were nervous—everyone was nervous, even she was nervous—but that didn't mean she had to like taking suggestions in the form of questions from anybody.

When she finished the last briefing, she hardly knew how many hours had gone by since the Mayday at Jakku. How much time had passed since she'd been back on base? How long had Poe been missing? How long until they stopped looking? How long before the sky above their base was filled with the scream of enemy planes?

 _Now is so not the time for this train of thought._

She was supposed to eat, but the Commons would hardly provide solace. She could swallow a ration or two before she went to bed; no sense in subjecting herself to a room full of people pretending they weren't watching her.

She found herself heading toward the mechanical bay.

As expected, the place was a beehive of activity, and no one looked twice when she entered. Droids whizzed by and the mechanics handed each other tools without looking. It's a beautiful thing, to watch some seventy people work tirelessly at something they're good at. The mechanics were as efficient a machine as the engines they labored over.

"If we make it through this one, tell the General I'm expecting a raise," someone mumbled as they passed behind her.

Rondel turned in time to catch a teasing glint of a smile that contradicted the gravity of the mechanic's words. Despite the exhaustion, she smiled slightly herself, as she pivoted to follow the long red ponytail, wheeling a massive tire unsteadily across the floor of the bay.

"You're just the man I'm a looking for, Gaithers," she said as she fell into step beside him, "Although it doesn't look like you really have a spare moment…"

"Aves, do I ever have a spare moment?" Kyle Gaithers blew out of the corner of his mouth at a wisp of hair that has fallen out of his ponytail.

"Too true," she obliged, falling behind him slightly as an Abednedo rolling a cart filled a mess of tubes and screws squeezed past them. "You're overworked and underappreciated, and the base would fall to pieces without you."

Gaithers stopped at the next Incom T-70 and dropped the tire with a flourish, kicking it under the plane. With equal ceremony, he grabbed a trolley and lowered himself onto it, tucking tools from a nearby cart into his belt. "I never understood people who were immune to flattery. Keep that up, and I might just help you with whatever pet project you have for me."

Rondel froze as he disappeared under the plane, her mind drawing parallels to the last conversation she'd carried out in a mechanical bay. She cleared her throat. "Um…"

A long whistle emitted from underneath the plane. "In all the years since we started out, I don't think I've ever known you to be at a loss for words."

 _Focus, focus, come on._

She cleared her throat, forcing a tone of lightness into her voice. "Come on, Gaithers, you've never known me to lose anything."

A sound like a snort emitted from under the plane. "Ain't that the truth. How're things topside?"

"Pretty much exactly like they are here. Busy. Hectic." She flipped a bucket over and straddled it, avoiding looking at the plane. "A lot less productive though, if I'm honest."

"I believe it. Your work doesn't really start till mine is done, though, so don't get too in your head about it."

There was a hiss, and a stream of steam burst from below the T-70. Gaithers swore, and he wheeled himself out, swerving to avoid the hot air and jumping up to switch out the tools on his belt. He was gone a moment later.

"You're not wrong," Rondel muttered. "I do hate a wait, though."

"Another Aves classic," Gaithers said, helpfully.

She arched an eyebrow. "I didn't know there was a lexicon on the subject."

"Encyclopedia, more like. How else do you think I got all of you to like me?"

"All of us, meaning me and the rest of our recruitment class?"

"And 'like me' meaning getting a read on the rest of you jocks so I could manipulate you into thinking I was cool."

"Naturally. Well, your nefarious plan was a success."

"Perfect; what more could I want in life. All that's between me and an early retirement is keeping these engines alive, so their planes stay alive, so this base stays alive."

Rondel smiled. "Oh is that all?"

"For you as well as me. Only instead of ships, you've got the General."

 _He's not wrong._

Gaithers wasn't done though.

"Word on the street is," he said conversationally, "that you were keeping watch over someone else too."

 _Word travels fast._

She cleared her throat. "If I'm being honest, I don't love the use of past tense in that sentence."

"No more than I do."

His voice had gotten kinder, and Rondel knew there were few who could ask about Poe with as little judgement and as much care as Gaithers. True, Poe had joined the Resistance ahead of her and Gaithers' class, but the relationship between a pilot and his mechanic one was a pretty unique one. The clanging beneath the plane had stilled, and it started up again slowly. "Is our boy going to be okay?"

 _That is the question isn't it._

Aloud, she said, "He will be."

There was a whirring of wheels and Gaithers slid out from under the plane, coming up just in front of Rondel's perch. He snapped himself upright, planted his feet on the ground, rested his elbows on his knees and paused, considering Rondel.

"Look, Aves, I'm no strategist. I'm not privy to the General and I don't know what sent Poe on that mission or why he's not back. But if there's something that'll bring Dameron back home, something that I can do, I need you to tell me."

 _If only it were that simple._

Fix a machine so it hums when it runs, tune up an alignment to respond to the slightest flick of a wrist, shave down the hood so it redefines aerodynamics. If only bringing Poe back were as simple as the turn of a wrench.

 _If only it were that simple._

If instead of having to launch a counterattack, they could only follow a set of protocols to bring Poe back. Then she wouldn't be left in this state of helplessness, wandering the base, trying to do anything that would take away the feeling that she somehow could've prevented it all, go anywhere to regain a sense of normalcy…anywhere, like the mechanical bay. Where problems a + b always equaled c, metal bent to whatever was stronger, and problems were solved with hands and tools.

Gaithers seemed to understand.

He lay back down and slid again under the plane, continued working. After a minute, Rondel stood up. She shouldn't be down here anyways, she had loads of things on her plate. Her eyes drifted around the bay, lighting on each mechanic around and under each plane, barely registering when Gaithers spoke again.

"He'll make it, Aves. If anyone could do it, you know it's Dameron. He'll make it, back to you."

Her head snapped down to the plane in front of her. "You mean to the base."

"That's what I said," came the response.

Rondel kicked the sole of one of the boots poking out from under the plane. "I'm going to make you explain that later, when we both don't have a million and ten things to do."

"Yessir. In the meantime, wasn't there something that brought you down here?"

Poe's shenim flashed in her memory. _"…tell Gaithers that he better be nice to this plane while he's fixing her up. She'll only take Naptha-kerosene, there's a concoction from Blowback Town that's something else; tell him if he puts an ounce of petrol in her, I'll skin him."_

"Naptha-kerosene."

"That's redundant. No, seriously, what do you need?"

Rondel blinked. "What do you mean?" she asked slowly.

"I mean," Gaithers paused, and she heard him straining to adjust something beneath the belly of the plane, "that we always use natural petrol for our birds. Nothing else compresses like it, and since it's all we've ever used, there's no sense in making a distinction."

 _Petrol and naptha-kerosene…are synonymous_?

"So there's not a noteworthy distinction between petrol and naptha-kerosene?" she asked slowly.

"Not in my bay. Both are pretty general terms though."

Gaithers emerged once more from under the plane, emptying his belt onto the cart, and wiping his hands on a rag. "Look, Aves, I can give you the chemical breakdown if you want, but honestly now's really not the time."

"No, you're totally right," she said quickly, to cover up the fact that her mind was whirring. Why would Poe have made that distinction? Unless… "Um, Gaithers, any of the stuff around here hail from Blowback Town?"

"Where?"

 _Well, sithspit._

"Nothing. Never mind, it wasn't anything worthwhile after all. Just the kerosene/naptha/petrol thing."

Gaithers didn't look like he bought that for a second, but he nodded slowly. "Okay, well should anything else arise that I can help with, let me know?"

"Will do."

She didn't mean to be abrupt, but her mind was miles away, and she was impressed sentences were forming on their own.

He nodded again, before swinging the rag over his shoulder and jerking his chin towards the next X-wing in the lineup. "If that's all, Aves, I probably should get a move on…"

"Right! Right. Thanks, Gaithers, that was actually super helpful."

"Sure thing."

There wasn't much circumstance when they parted ways, but halfway across the hangar, Rondel's step slowed as she caught up with her thoughts.

 _No one else would ask a mechanic._

Poe knew she'd have to share the shenim with the General and the rest of the council; he knew everyone would comb through it for clues. He knew everyone would instantly be absorbed with scanning the systems for BB-8, and for tracing anything they could find on him. They would pour over the plane, checking for anything they might've missed. They might even go so far as to pass a message along to a mechanic to use naptha-kerosene as they repaired his plane.

And that was what he'd of wanted: for everyone to look for BB-8. For the efforts of the base to be directed towards finding the map and making sure they were ready for the Order. But, just in case, he would've left a breadcrumb. He would've added a failsafe, just in case, for if someone wasn't able to sit still while the rest of the base hummed. For someone who'd replay the shenim over and over, long past when the council had gleaned all pivotal information. He knew they'd end up here, in the mechanical bay, babbling to Gaithers about it because they would feel like they owed him that much. And he'd know that the fuels he listed were one and the same, and, most importantly, that the one to reason through all of this would be her. Which meant…

Rondel turned on her heel, striding back to where Gaithers was balancing on a ladder, sanding down the top of an x-wing. Everyone was bustling around their planes, prodding and perfecting and ignoring her.

She climbed the opposite side of the ladder, motioning for him to turn the noisy machine off. "You said anything you could help with, right?" she asked quietly.

His eyes narrowed, but he nodded.

Rondel steadied herself. "How about some wings?"

 **A/N: It has been far far too long since I've written Rondel and Poe! Thank you so so much too everyone who messaged and commented for me to finish with this! It means so much that y'all are following along, and I am trying to keep updating. As always, reviews/comments are very much appreciated! Happy New Year!**


	9. Chapter 9

"Rondel, it's 0200 hours, I just got to my bunk an hour ago and I'm starting again at 0530; this had better be good."

"Okay, how's this: either you tell me how to land this thing or it's landing on its own, leaving a Rondel-sized imprint on this desert rock of a planet."

Rondel hoped her voice sounded more threatening than it felt. Because it felt like she was about to crash her tiny plane into Jakku.

"I'd say that's pretty good."

When she'd convinced Gaithers to give her a plane, she hadn't really thought through the part of her plan that included her flying said machine. In the dark. Over Jakku. By herself. Unsanctioned, yet again.

Jakku wasn't a particularly large planet, and there were barely any settlements scattered across it; Rondel had thought as far as which quadrant she'd need to be in. Unfortunately, she hadn't thought about landing it.

Which is why she'd abandoned all hope of discretion and dialed Gaithers' bunk.

"Okay, okay, okay." He was mumbling to himself; in her mind's eye Rondel could see him shaking his shoulders and swinging his legs over the side of the bed so he could simulate the cramped cockpit Rondel was in. "Okay, gimme your altitude."

"3000 feet, and dropping ."

"Karking seriously? You're practically on the ground, Aves."

"I forgot how much you swear when you're tired."

"Tired has ceased to be an adjective and is now a state of existence. How's your speed; I'm guessing you're somewhere around 60k?"

Rondel hesitated, pulling up on the yoke, waiting to feel the lag. "Um, count to three?"

"To three…What?"

"That'll do. Now I'm down 60."

Gaithers huffed. "Nice. Okay, cut it down to 50. Altitude?"

"1250."

"Make that 45 then. What're you aiming for?"

"It's Jakku, Gaithers, there's nothing to aim for."

"Fair enough. What's your horizon like?"

"It's black, you can't tell where the night ends and Jakku starts."

"Not the…" Gaithers gritted. "That's poetic, Aves, but I meant your artificial one. You really haven't piloted one of these before, have you?"

"Last I checked, that's what autopilot and actual pilots are for," she shot back. "I'm level."

"Good girl. Altitude?"

"2000?"

"Kark, already?"

"You didn't say to slow past 45!"  
"Slow past 45!" he yelped, then took a breath. "Point your nose up."

"How much up?"

"Just, up? Add a flap or two."

"Where would I—"

"Orange button near your left hand."

"Thanks. 1800 feet."

"That's good. Nose up a little more."

"How do you know that?"

"Because I know you've barely got it up at all. Nose. Up."

She pointed up. "1500."

Gaithers exhaled. "Okay. Find a field or something to aim for."

"What, like a meadow of wildflowers?" she asked sarcastically.

"Okay, not a pit of rocks, how's that?"

She snorted. "You're getting the hang of it. 1200."

"Good. Keep her steady. When you think you're about to hit, pull up."

"So my main wheels touch first?"

"Yep. You'll pull up, then once you feel the ground, point down."

"How far down?"

"Nice and easy, like the trigger on a sniper rifle."

"Now you're speaking my language. 1000, even. Am I going to bounce?"

"Probably. Don't let it jerk the plane."

"Found my meadow of wildflowers. When should I turn the lights back on?"

"Why are they off?" He didn't even sound surprised.

"Pretty sure Order goons are just waiting for a ship like this one to drop out of the sky. 720 feet."

"…How close to the town are you?"

The lights of a cantina, hotel and petrol port swam into vision in front of her. "Not that close," she said.

"Okay. Well, if you hypothetically were right over one, then cut your engine."

"Come again?"

"Cut it."

"Gaithers…"

"It's a small town, and that particular engine makes a very particular growl. You're at 600 feet?"

"How'd you know that?"

"Kill the engine, Aves, sound travels fast and far in the desert."

She did.

It was the eeriest feeling, floating and falling in silence.

"Flaps out, point her up, brake if you can manage it."

She could.

The lights of the town whizzed by, and Rondel focused on the black mass beyond them.

"Speed?"

"Just under 15."

"Altitude?"

"430."

Then she saw it.

"Shavit," she muttered, borrowing from Gaithers' vocabulary.

"What. What is it."

"Um. So, you know how I was aiming at the dark/empty space behind the totally hypothetical town?"

"Yes?"

"Not a space, not a field, and definitely no flowers; it's a pit."

Gaithers was quiet. "Altitude?"

"300. And my horizon says I'll touch down right before the cliff."

"Too late for your engine. Right before as in half a mile?"

"As in 20 feet"

"Sithspit, Aves. Okay, you need to slow down. Open the roof."

"Do what?"

"It'll give you drag."

"250 and I'm running out of land here, Gaithers."

"So open the roof. Speed?"

"9."

She stood in the seat, throwing the latches that held the roof down.

 _Here goes nothing._

She flipped the last latch and the roof hissed open. The air caught and the plane lurched.

"With the roof open?" She could barely hear this voice on the radio over the sound of the wind.

"7, now," she yelled.

"I can barely hear you, Aves."

"Right back at you."

She hunched down in the seat, clutching the radio. "Okay, I'm at 6.5 and 100 feet. I'm touching down in a matter of seconds."

"Right… 75 feet?"

"Yeah."

"50?"

"Almost…yeah, now. Are you pacing me?"

"I am. Tell me when you hit 20. How far are you from the cliff?"

She looked and shivered. "Not far enough. 30."

"Okay, stand up for impact."

"Stand up? Why?"

"Do it, Aves!" There was a tone of urgency on his voice that made it impossible to ignore.

She stood.

"Standing. 20 feet."

"Bend your knees. 15?"

"Yeah."

"Okay...now I need a little hop, just half an inch off the ground. Got it?"

"What?"

"Half an inch. You at 10 feet?"

"Yeah, but—"

"Good luck, Aves. NOW."

She jumped.

The plane hit the ground, and it jerked violently. Her inch of air was a boost, and the plane lurched beneath her, catapulting her.

Before she knew what was happening, the sand was scraping against her; she grunted on impact and tried to slow herself with her forearms. Inertia was not in her favor and she had to dig into the course sand, ignoring once again her wrist. She had to slow down.

The plane was skidding in a mechanical roar, and its screech grew longer as it slid along the sand. There was a long whine and then the sound of silence as it reached the end of the abyss, and began its fall. She couldn't see in the dark, but she heard the whistle of metal through the air as it fell, and then the thud as it hit the bottom. Like a can being crushed under foot, only magnified.

 _The Order definitely heard that._

She stood up, bending her limbs, checking for injury. Nothing more than the wrist.

 _Son of a gun._

He knew the plane wasn't going to land without crashing. He knew the pressure of impact would throw her. So he had her jump.

If she made it back to base, he was definitely getting that raise.

But that was a really big 'if'. All her communication with the base had crashed with the ship, and all she had to go on was the hunch that had her sneaking off base in the first place.

 _He might not even be here._

 _He will be._

If Poe wasn't dead, he'd be here. Maybe sooner, maybe later, Poe would make his way to Blowback town. To meet her. Like he'd said in his shenim.

Rondel tried to dust off the front of her robes, but it was pretty much useless. She was pretty sure the dark green of her clothes would now feature a permanent tinge of sand.

The lights of the town were in front of her.

She walked towards them.

 _Okay, so what's the game plan here._

Find Poe, bring Poe home. If he's not here, wait for him. Probably contact the base at some point. Let them know she hadn't completely gone rogue, and that she'd left instructions for all of her subordinates on the protocols she'd need them to follow.

The sun was creeping up over the desert as she limped into town, letting herself into a tavern on the outer edge. She fished a coin out of a pocket and flipped it at the bartender behind the bar as she headed towards the washroom. She steeled herself as she looked at her reflection.

She looked like she'd jumped out of a plane.

Her face, neck and hands were swollen and red from burn marks from the sand. Her hair was in complete disarray, and she tried to tuck it into some semblance of a braid. Not because there was anyone to impress here, but because at the moment, she might as well have a neon sign announcing that the plane that had crashed in the canyon was hers. She flipped her poncho inside out, and picked up some sand from the floor to rub it over the back of her leggings, to camouflage the stains. Gritting her teeth, she cupped her hands under the tepid water of the tap, splashing it over her face. It stung. But it did the job, and she washed the bulk of the sand out of her face. Now instead of looking burned and dragged, she just looked burned.

She walked out into the bar.

"If someone needs to get off this rock, who do they talk to?" she asked the bartender.

He barely acknowledged her, running a grimy towel over a shelf of equally gritty glasses. "You drinking anything?"

 _Oh not this again._

"Sure. Whatever's easiest."

The bartender flipped a glass off the shelf and held it under a keg, out of which a lumpy blue liquid spewed. He smacked it in front of her, and waited.

 _Why yes, apparently it is indeed this again. Is every tavern on this planet the same?_

"Obliged," she nodded and took a gulp of the liquid, telling herself not to taste it. It didn't so much have a flavor as a texture, and a congealed one at that, but she returned the glass to the bar and raised an eyebrow at the bartender. "So?"

He shrugged, dutifully impressed. "There are one or two Blarina around here, who've a penchant for strays."

"Around here as in down the street, or across the planet?"

He stared at her and she rolled her eyes, taking another swig.

Placated, he continued. "Somewhere in the middle. They wander. So…what happened to your wrist?"

She looked at him sharply. "What?"

"Your wrist," he sniffed, and his voice lowered, even though there was hardly anyone in the bar. "You're clearly favoring your non-dominant hand. Did you injure it recently? Say, abandoning your plane?"

 _Well, that took even less time that I thought it would._

Rondel took another drink, just for emphasis, then set her glass down on the tabletop and met the eyes of the bartender. "And if I did?"

He didn't blink, then his chin raised almost imperceptibly, to his left. "Then your man is in the back."

Her breath left her in a whoosh.

Before she could say anything, the bartender turned again, clearly dismissing her.

There was a dingy door, obscured by the poor light and a malnourished tree, its only indicator the reflective shine from the door handle. She glanced around quickly, and the lone patrons of the bar didn't seem to pay her any mind.

She slipped in the door.

The room was dark, illuminated by a lone patch of moonlight, streaming in through a barred window. It took her eyes a moment to adjust. A cot, a few crates containing what she could only assume was the backup stash of Knockback Nectar. A man sitting on the bed, turned slightly away from her. His clothes were streaked and his back was slightly hunched, bearing the signs of a long journey. Blood was caked on his forehead, and had dried on his neck as well, and sand dusted his clothes and hair.

She'd know that profile anywhere.

"Dameron," she said quietly, and started to walk towards him.

He turned sharply in her direction, and stood so quickly she jumped.

"I don't know what this is, but you had your fun already, enough." His voice was harsh, rough, laced with hatred and exhaustion.

She froze. "Poe? What—?"

"Enough." He was looking at her, glaring at her, but he was talking as though not to her. His eyes were red, strained, and they saw her, searched her, then left her.

"It's okay," she said slowly, raising her hands, pretending not to notice when he flinched. "Poe, it's just me, and…"

She trailed off, he wasn't listening. He'd retreated to the patch of moonlight, and when his back hit the wall, his shoulders squared against it. He lowered his chin, and his gaze shifted from her to an unfixed point over her head.

"Poe Dameron, B1734682."

It took a moment for her to find her voice. "Poe, it's me. Aves, um, Rondel. I'm not here with the Order, I'm not here to interrogate you. I'm—"

"Not Aves. Aves is safe, she's on the ship, Aves is—" He stopped himself, closing his eyes. "Poe Dameron, B1734682." he said again.

 _He doesn't think it's actually me._

Cold realization washed over her. She knew better than to try to imagine what the Order had done with the Resistance's top pilot, but it had been enough to convince him this reality wasn't real. That she wasn't real.

She took another step forward, slowly. "I was on the ship," she said slowly, working on keeping her voice calm, calming. "And I even took off. I didn't realize you were gone until I was out of this planet's atmosphere."

His hands were clenched tightly at his side; he shook his head and still refused to meet her eyes. "Poe Dameron, B1734682."

Another step.

"I piloted that whole ridiculous ship by myself; it was the most atrocious takeoff ever made by a Resistance ship, I'm sure of it."

"Poe Dameron, B1734682."

"I got my wrist set," she said quietly, pleadingly, as she came to stand in front of him. "And your plane, Gaithers and I fixed her up. Mostly Gaithers, but I found your shenim and told him to. Dameron, look at me."

He shook his head, staring still above her. He opened his mouth to restart his recitation, but he closed it again, swallowing the words. His fingers clenched and unclenched at his side.

"It's me," she tried again, "I promise, look at me."

He did.

Slowly, so slowly, his eyes lowered from the doorframe where they'd been fixed with persistent determination, and they drifted to her face.

She wanted to smile, to encourage, but instead she just held her breath. "I'm here. I left you, and I came back for you."

His eyes searched hers desperately, but he still didn't move from the wall.

"T-tell me…something he wouldn't know," he said it so quietly, so uncertainly.

His lip was busted, and under his nose was stained from where blood had dried days ago. He seemed so broken, so hurt, so heavy. His eyes were red, tired and hooded, and barely able to focus on her. She lifted a hand, and touched his jaw, his cheekbone, avoiding the bruises and caked blood as best she could. And yet she thought of her years of friendship with this man and she said the only thing she could: "I missed your 'beautiful eyes, devil-may-care attitude, and gorgeous eyes'."

She meant it.

And he got it.

A moment later his arms were around her, and he was shaking, and she was holding him up as much as he was clinging to her. It wasn't romantic, it wasn't graceful, and it wasn't a picture the Resistance would paint of its Head of Security and Ace Pilot. But she was holding Poe, and he was okay, or he would be, and that meant everything else would be too.

A/N: Forgive me for taking ever to post this? I'm so sorry, y'all! Life gets away from ya, but I'm happy to be back with Poe and Rondel. You know what was ridiculous about writing this chapter? The litany of Star Wars swears that there are to choose some. Google it, if you have a spare 20 minutes, and have some mental capacity to spare. Also, bit of a disclaimer, I fibbed the numbers for the landing a bit. I actually did look up quite a bit of the landing process, but it was hard to distinguish between knots (speed) and feet (distance), since they were in the same ballpark and I didn't want to keep saying "625 knots and 600 feet". As always, I really appreciate your reviews! Thanks for dealing with the fact that it took me agesssss to write this one!


	10. Chapter 10

The options were to either steal an Order craft, or find a way to signal back to base to arrange a transport. Both options had pretty high chances of detection and interception, so Rondel decided on the more immediate option of theft.

Poe was lying on the bed; she'd told him to try to get some sleep. She was pretty sure he wasn't actually sleeping, but his eyes were closed obediently.

If she were someone else, she'd ask the bartender for a damp cloth, and wipe the blood off Poe's face. She'd sit on the bed, rest his head in her lap, stay there until the furrows in his brow eased and he really did slip off to sleep. But a Maid Marian she was not, and having Poe back didn't mean they could rest. They had their titles, but they were soldiers, and it was long past time to report to the base.

She asked the bartender for a mug of whatever heinous brew she'd had earlier, and set it next to the foot of the bed.

"Drink that; it'd better be gone by the time I'm back" she muttered, and slipped out of the room.

As she closed the door behind her, the bartender coughed.

Rondel looked at him warily.

"There's an airfield," he said nonchalantly, smearing grease around a glass, "just under two miles out of town. Not much security between now and sunrise."

She turned back to the bar. "Why are you helping me?" she asked quietly.

The bartender deliberately set the glass down, looking at the dirty glass, on the dirty bar, in the dirty room. He looked up.

"I knew a man, from a ways back. Used to get into trouble together. He's not like that anymore, religious. But he'd come back in here every couple of weeks, and he'd buy a drink for anyone who was thirsty," he picked the glass up again, holding it up to the dim light, "He's dead now."

Rondel nodded slowly. This war touched everyone. "I'm sorry."

"Along with that whole village."

 _Oh._

"So you hid him," she said, nodding to Poe's room.

He slung the rag over his shoulder and started on the glass with a grubby nail. "Your man looked like the type who'd try to keep that from happening. He made it this far- bartered his way with a scavenger, I understand, pirates were involved. Anyways, I figured you'd be along soon enough."

"Me?"

"Aye. Someone who protects always has someone who follows."

She shifted her weight between her feet. "What happened in Tuanal... that's why I'm here, that's why he's here. To make it right."

"And that," he at last seemed satisfied with the glass, and plucked it on a shelf with a dozen others that were equally not-clean, "is why I'm helping."

Rondel nodded. "Is that airfield east or west of here?"

"West. You could take the sand skimmer but it died a week ago."

"I'm better on my feet anyways."

It was true, and since there wasn't anything else to say, Rondel left the bar. She started out at a jog, and it wasn't long before the shadowy figures of aircraft swam into view in front of her.

 _There really isn't much security._

There was a guard tower with a few Gamorreans inside, but that was easy enough. Counting haircuts was one of the first tricks she'd been taught, and the principle applied to tusks just as well; there were one-two-three-four-five guards in the tower. Once she snuck underneath the tower, Rondel tapped one of the support beams. Like clockwork, the guards came out one by one to investigate. And soon there was a pile of snoring Gamorreans underneath the tower, five high.

She had her pick of planes, but the pickings were slim.

All the planes in the field looked like they'd seen better days...better decades, even. There was a fine layer of sand covering them, like a giant dusting of desert that meant cranky engines and sputtering starts. It would also mean that no one would immediately notice these. The planes looked as much like Jakku as they possibly could, and they would be perfect camouflage.

 _Except…_

There was an Order Patrol Plane at the far corner of the field. Its metal exterior was gleaming, even in the pre-dawn darkness. Every other plane looked like they hadn't seen the air for months, but this one, the engine was practically still humming. Rondel crossed over to it almost involuntarily, her sand-burned hands gliding over the cool, sleek metal.

 _This was what they came after Poe in._

Rondel drew her hand back from the wing of the plane.

Any of the other planes would be good cover. They'd blend in, and they could easily slip by any Order soldiers that came after them. They probably wouldn't even be missed. The Order ship stood out, but here she was: they'd taken something of hers, so she was taking something of theirs.

She backed away, surveying the ship.

There was an access panel, but she had a low chance of guessing the entry code. They probably hadn't left their ship completely unguarded, but she doubted she could lure Order soldiers out like she had with the guards. She needed something loud and quick, to draw them out, without hurting the ship.

Rondel circled the plane slowly, eyes scanning for a dashed line: the cut out area. It wasn't like it was thinner metal, but it was a few feet where you could slash away at the hull without worrying about cutting fuel lines or anything. Fuel lines were good; she'd like to keep them around if she could.

All her sharp and pointy objects had been in the plane she and Gaithers flew off the edge of the ravine, so when she found the cut out area, Rondel borrowed a vicious looking knife from one of the downed Gamorreans. She wrenched it through the metal and winced at the horrible scraping sound.

 _Come out to play, Clankers._

She forced it through the hull a few more times, then she heard the door whoosh open.

Rondel had just enough time to leave the Gamorrean's knife in the plane and throw herself to the ground behind one of the wheels before the Order guards opened fire. They only let out five or six shots off before they stopped. Not that she could blame them; they were firing into darkness.

 _If they keep this up, we'll wake the Gamorreans._

She felt around for a decently sized rock; once her fingers closed around one, she threw it to her left. The guards fired at that, then again at where she was-rather, where she'd been. Rondel pulled herself onto the smooth wing of the plane, the aerodynamic finish of the ship making skimming across the top easy progress.

She dropped onto the first Stormtrooper and after a bit of a scuffle he went down; two quick shots from his appropriated blaster, and the second guard fell, and the third after him. Unlike the Gamorreans, the Order troopers lay silent.

Rondel stood slowly.

 _How do I keep forgetting about this snarking wrist._

She tried flexing it a bit, and immediately regretted it. She definitely wasn't helping its healing process. More like the exact opposite. She rolled her neck and wrenched the Gamorrean's knife out of the belly of the plane with her good hand, strapping it to her waist. On second thought, she relieved the Stormtroopers of their blasters; her waist now looked like an old-fashioned holster.

She stepped tentatively inside the plane, pausing for the door to whoosh shut behind her. She kept her back to the wall of the door, waiting. If there was anyone else on board, now would be when they came to make sure the guards had done their job.

No footsteps echoed.

As she settled into the cockpit, it occurred to her that if flying a plane she'd been trained to fly had been a struggle, then this was about to be a herculean effort.

 _Find the ignition...disengage the brake...manual controls...forget that, definitely not manual...get the shields up, just in case…reset that access code, while we're at it..._

She somehow got it off the ground.

The Gamorreans were out for the count, the Order guards permanently so, and the hope was that all she had to do was get Poe out of there before the morning security patrols came to relieve the night guards of their duty. She didn't so much 'maneuver' or 'park' the plane as she did drop it, in a street a plausible distance from the bar.

Which was empty.

And not pre-dawn empty, with some drunkards sleeping off the night, mumbling in their sleep, and someone humming in the corner. Entirely empty.

Rondel pulled one of the blasters, and walked silently toward the door hiding Poe. From beyond the door, she heard an even inhale, followed by a click. It overlapped with another breath, another click. And then an unsteady exhale, not hindered by a mask.

 _Two stormtroopers, then, and Poe._

She slipped the blaster back in her belt; diplomacy was going to be the way to go. She could see her reflection in the grimy mirror behind the bar, and she yanked her hair out of her braids and pulled it into her face. She always looked younger when it was down. Just before she turned back to the room, she remembered to untuck her tunic to hide the arsenal of weapons in her belt.

She nudged the door with her foot and stepped back out of the doorway as it creaked open. No shots were fired, so she drew a quick breath and stepped in front of the door, hands up, ready to play the part of innocent civilian.

Poe wasn't in the room.

There were two Stormtroopers, the insignia on their arms showing them to be patrols, probably here to investigate the crash. Her crash. One of them had his blaster trained on her, the other was wiping an armored hand with a rag that was red with blood.

The bartender.

He was slouching on the bed, blood spattered on his shirt, one eye swollen completely shut, and his lip busted. He was in rough shape; he hadn't so much as looked up when she entered the room.

"We were hoping you'd be someone else," said one of the troopers casually.

 _I was hoping you wouldn't be here at all._

"I...I, um," she cleared her throat dramatically, brushing her hair out of her face in a hurried gesture, and staring at the bartender like she couldn't look away. "My uncle was late for breakfast...I came t-to wake him up..."

"What do you know about the crash?"

She rubbed her hands together nervously, ignoring the question. "Why are you doing this to my uncle? What did he do to-"

The Imperial pulled his blaster back and swung the blunt end of it into the bartenders' temple. It was a hard hit, and the bartender's head rolled; Rondel gave exaggerated her gasp of horror.

"Next time we ask you a question," he held his hand out to his comrade, who gave over the rag, with which he wiped the end of the blaster, before casually raising it again, "you should answer it."

"For your uncle's sake," the other stormtrooper added, retrieving his own blaster from a side table.

"I-I don't know anything, anything at all, I swear," she said quickly, wringing her hands and this time bending her wrist. Medical would kill her, but right now she needed tears. If she played her cards right, they'd lower their blasters, leave the bartender alone, and come after her, to take them to the 'pilot' they were looking for. "We heard the crash but i-it's still too dark to see but he might have-"

"So it's a human pilot!" interrupted a stormtrooper, "I think you might know a little more than you let on."

"No!" she protested hastily, too quickly, letting a couple more tears fall. "Alright, maybe...will you promise to leave my uncle out of this?"

They seemed to be considering, when the bartender groaned and lifted his head. "What are you doing?" he asked weakly.

 _Please, please shut up and trust me._

"Uncle, it will be alright, please don't worry."

The bartender stared at her and then frowned, shaking his head. "I don't-"

"They won't hurt you," Rondel said quickly, interrupting him, willing him to understand.

His eyes narrowed, and he sniffed. Blood was leaking from where the blaster had hit him, and she could see he was trying to think through everything she'd said. She didn't need it to make sense to him; she needed him to stay quiet so she could get them out of this.

He coughed, drawing shaky breath. When he spoke, his voice like gravel. "I don't know what you're playing at, but I didn't hide your spy so that you could..."

He trailed off when the stormtroopers' suddenly turned back to him.

 _Oh I wish you hadn't said that._

For a moment, the room was silent.

"Spy?" intoned one of the stormtroopers, "What spy?"

The bartender was still staring at Rondel, then looked between the two men.

Rondel didn't have a choice.

 _I'm sorry._

She shot the bartender between his eyes.

When the Imperials turned back to her, she had a blaster pointing at each of them. "I promise I'm a faster shot than both of you," she said quietly, "and I didn't enjoy doing that, so my patience is a little thin. How many are in your patrol?"

On her left, the storm trooper drew himself taller. "We wouldn't tell-"

A shot rang out, he crumpled, and both blasters were now trained on the remaining Order member. "How. Many."

"Two," he said quickly, "Just the two of us, I swear."

"Thank you."

She fired again.

Rondel sheathed both blasters, and walked out of the room. Across the empty bar, to the washroom she's used the night before; she pulled her hair back into the braid. The water was tepid and she splashed some of it over her face, splattered with the bartender's blood. She didn't want Poe to see it.

Over the running faucet, she heard a faint click and hollow echo.

 _Shavit. Of course the Imperial lied._

The door was closed and they couldn't know she knew they were there. She left the water running and mopped her face with her sleeve, backing away from the sink. She drew a blaster yet again, checked it's charge, and switched it.

Crouching next to the door, Rondel slowly reached up to open it.

The second the knob turned, shots blasted the door. The frame splintered and Rondel grimaced, covering her eyes with her arm as the firing continued, pressing up against the wall. When the door fell off its hinges the shots paused and she rolled, firing from the ground. There were two more stormtroopers in the room, and her angle caught them by surprise. They both fell; one instantly, the second, reached for his radio.

"We've got them; they're at the bar. Not the prisoner, but-"

She shot the radio, the hand that held it and then the soldier.

She registered that these stormtroopers bore a different insignia from the patrol men who'd interrogated the bartender. It matched the armor of the ship she'd stolen...the whole of the Order knew she was at the bar.

 _You've got to move, Aves._

Sure enough, even as the last Imperial stilled, she heard the clatter of footsteps outside, setting up formation outside the door. She dropped her blasters next to the bodies and ran out the back door, locking it and wrenching the handle off.

In the alleyway, the sun was rising.

She blew out a steady breath, turning in a circle slowly. No one in the alley, no one on the roofs above, nobody in the bar. Yet.

She suddenly felt cold.

It was an indescribable feeling, knowing she was being watched. Her first thought was 'sniper', but no, they would've taken the shot by now. She rescanned the storefront windows until a ripple of a curtain caught her eye.

Rondel retreated back to the wall of the bar, pressed her back against it, hiding in its shadow, and waited. She only had so much time before the Order took the bar, and she had to find Poe, but whoever was behind that curtain...

Small fingers peaked out, curled around the fabric, and pulled it back ever so slightly.

A little girl.

Rondel met her eyes and tried to smile. The girl didn't react, just stared. Then, her head tilted slightly to the side, and she raised her thumb. She flicked her wrist.

 _Left._

Was it a warning or direction? What was to the left? More soldiers? The ship?

Rondel wished she hadn't left her blasters in the bar, but drew the Gamorrean's knife. Holding it in front of her, she walked to her left, slowly. As she neared the corner of the bar, she felt the weight of the little girl's gaze on her back. Her footsteps were silent, and she held her breath as she got closer.

 _Click._

Too late, she registered the sound and recognized the figure of a stormtrooper, holding a rifle, concealed in the shadows. He emerged from around the corner, and she backed up quickly, her hands raising.

"Drop it," he said, gesturing with his rifle to the knife she still held.

They were in the bar now; she could hear them beating against the door with the back of their rifles. They'd be through it in a matter of seconds, and she couldn't let that happen.

"You know I can't do that."

Before he could register her words, she kicked, her foot catching his stomach and he buckled. She sprung forward, using the height to her advantage, twisting away as his gun fired into the sand. She pivoted beside him, drawing the knife back, then plunging it into the gap between his helmet and armor. He sunk to the ground, and she wrenched the knife out, wiping it on his arm, and grabbed his dropped rifle. As she darted around the corner and she heard the door give.

"Over there!" she heard someone yell, and then she started to run.

 _So we're doing this._

She ran out of the alleyway, through the village vaguely in the direction she'd set the craft. Her steps echoed on the ground and she looked down in surprise when the sand gave way to the stone of a market place pavilion. She darted behind stacked crates in a row of stands, steadying her breathing and looking disappointedly at the rifle in her hands.

 _Why couldn't he carry something with a little stronger kick?_

She heard footfall clamber into the marketplace, but no one fired. There was some chatter as they set up shop but she realized they didn't know where she was. She could wait for them to stumble on her, getting closer and closer, or she could give away her position now, but keep them at bay.

 _Screw this._

She turned and rose, firing at the first two soldiers she saw before crouching back behind the crates. Only one of her shots found their target, but she immediately felt the crates shudder as they were wracked with stormtrooper fire. At some point they'd need to recharge, then she could go about picking them off.

As long as they didn't try flanking her.

From the echo of the fire, they hadn't started moving yet. Some shots were more hollow than others, and she guesstimated there were no less than a dozen.

The crates were giving way.

 _And I still have to find Poe._

She checked the charge on her own weapon before peaking out of the crates and firing a couple of shots- not to hit anything but to give her more time.

 _Maybe something in the crates is flammable._

If she could get it to blow up, it could cover her to the next pile of crates, or at least give her space to think, or send up some sort of homing beacon for Poe to find her…

She started rifling through them, and was disappointed to find nothing but filler. Sure it'd blow, but it would need something to burn first, to give it a chance to smolder. The next crates revealed...syrup.

She noticed absently that the firing was easing, which probably meant that they were starting to circle.

She smashed the necks of couple of bottles of the thick liquid on the ground, breaking them open and tossing them into the holes the stormtroopers' fire had carved in the crates. The liquid seeped into the hay, glistening in the early sunlight, crystalline sugar that meant it'd burn something pretty.

"Running out of juice here, Aves; sure hope you're doing something useful."

She spun around.

Sure enough, Dameron was crouched behind a pile of crates a couple of stalls down. No wonder the shooting had slowed down; he was covering her.

Relief washed over her and she grinned at him stupidly before he rose again to fire across the pavilion and she snapped out of it.

"How about some target practice?" she called, smashing another bottle, spilling it carefully.

"What do you think I'm doing?" he yelled, and another gun silenced .

Another bottle against the paved stone, and then she had just one more left in the crate. "Fun as this is, I think I've got one even better."

Poe ducked back down and even from this distance, she saw his teeth flash. "Pull," he called.

She tossed the last bottle in the air, and it floated up towards the sky. The Imps went silent, and she knew they were watching in confusion, then she saw Dameron take aim. She ran away from the crates, towards him. She felt the warmth of the blaster shot as it ripped through the air beside her, concentrated heat racing towards its target.

The arced at the top of its path, then shattered a moment into its descent.

It burst into flames, shattering, glass and fire raining into the crates around. She slowed as she reached the crates where Poe was crouched.

"Can you run?"

He clasped her extended arm and hauled himself up. "Beats the alternative."

She grinned and they started sprinting. They slipped out of the pavilion and into another alleyway just as the crates exploded. Even though they were out of the direct path of damage, flames and ashes rained around them.

"Nice shot."

"Nice bomb. Left?"

"Straight."

There was shouting from the marketplace, and Rondel knew she'd only bought them a couple of seconds. They burst into an open street with several Order craft, all deserted.

"Where's our ride?"

"She's right here." Rondel ran over to the appropriated craft, punching her code into the side of the ship. "I'm sure she'll appreciate an actual pilot at her helm. Can you fly her?"

Poe was at her back, scanning the street with his blaster. "I can fly…"

The door whisked open, and she darted inside, before realizing Poe wasn't behind her.

"Dameron, you coming?"

"Anything." He turned sharply, his jaw clenched. "I can fly anything."

He wasn't looking at her, and she stepped aside to let him into the plane.

 _Nice, Aves. Ask him about flying after he crashed into this planet._

But there wasn't time for that now.

"We'll have company soon; you get us off the ground, I'll keep them there," she said quickly, as the door whisked shut. She slipped down the narrow passageway in the opposite direction of the cockpit.

The ship shook beneath her as she made her way to the turret. It was either an uncharacteristically rough takeoff or-

"They're early, Aves!"

She registered his yell as she settled into the seat, swinging around and locking into the guns.

"That's fine, I'm in a mood," she muttered, leaning hard to her right and drumming her fingers to flip through the settings. Landing on heavy artillery, she started spraying.

It wasn't like she got high off watching Stormtroopers fall and stay down.

But.

This was for the bartender. For San Tekkar. For the little girl who would live in terror for the next week. For Poe, who, just a few hours ago, didn't believe it was her. For Tuanal.

She didn't realize she was yelling until she gasped for breath. Her face felt hot. The street was entirely still and she saw she'd ripped the wing off one Order plane, and tore a hole in the hull of second. They wouldn't be followed.

She eased back in the seat, letting the anti gravity measures kick in as they neared Jakku's atmosphere. She held a hand to her wrist, waiting for her pulse to slow; it wasn't until they'd cleared the atmosphere that she was breathing evenly enough to unbuckle and head to the cockpit.

She paused before she entered. Poe was still, she could see Jakku looming in front of them, a desolate sphere of sand. His shoulders were rigid, and she couldn't hear him breathing. After a moment, he leaned forward, pulling a lever. With a stubborn whirring, the ship turned from Jakku, the view shifting from the planet to the constellations.

Poe's hands were a blur over the control panel; she recognized some of the motions. Turning off their beacon, disabling tracking, tucking shields back down. Making them invisible.

"I figure," he said casually, over his shoulder, "we drop this tank off at Daxam IV, and catch a ride from there back to base."

Rondel entered the cockpit, "Best plan I've heard in a while."

She input the coordinates on the panel, then sank into the copilot chair on his right. She pulled her feet up under her, resting her chin on her knees.

"How's that wrist?" Poe was still busy with the controls, and she just watched, rather than getting in the way.

"Broken."

"Hmm," he was fiddling with something on his left, out of her line of vision. "Any other injuries I should be worried about?"

"Pretty sure I'm supposed to ask you about that."

He stilled, then shook his head, blowing hair out of his eyes. "Be-Kylo just had some fun in my head. Nothing too serious."

"Probably a little more serious than a broken wrist," she said carefully.

He huffed, maybe on a laugh.

When he didn't say anything else, Rondel's gaze fell to their reflection is the front windows. "What a pair we make."

He grinned for a moment, "Yeah."

Things were quiet then, just the beeping reactions of the controls. Poe's right hand missed the panel in front of him, hovering in the air between them. She stared at it for a moment, and then up at him. Over his shoulder, Poe gave what she thought was supposed to be a brave smile, but it was just a little too tight around the eyes. He flipped his hand over, palm up. "Come on, Rondel, give me this."

She blinked, surprised. Then her hand slipped into his, and his eyes relaxed.

"Did the Lorr have it?" she asked, after a long moment.

"He did."

More of a pause, more controls, more beeping.

"We'll find BB-8," she said firmly.

"We will."

"And then the General's brother."

"With any luck."

"Which means..." Rondel paused for a moment, marveling at the thought. "We're a step closer to ending this thing."

Poe flipped a final switch on the panel, and leaned back in his chair to face her. "Guess it's a good thing you talked me into coming along, then."

"Guess it's a good thing you were pretty easy to convince."

They stared at each other for a long moment, and Poe smiled, turning momentarily back to the controls again.

His thumb traced idly over the back of her hand. "A pair, yeah?"

The stars blurred and Rondel stilled. For the second time in her life, she'd missed the jump between reality and hyperspace.

She turned her head to the man beside her.

Poe's face was still filthy, still caked in blood and the grime of the planet. Nose still broken, face still cracked and raw. But his eyes were aflame, reflecting the dancing lights of the stars.

At the end of the galaxy, they'd drop out of hyperspace. They'd find the General, find BB-8, find Luke. Start a new mission, then a new one, however many it took.

That's as far as she always thought.

But now...now the unfamiliar cockpit glowed from the streaming illumination of stars. Now, her heart was held steady by the same grip that held her hand. For the first time since she could remember, Rondel let herself think beyond.

At the end of hyperspace there was their mission, soon to be complete. At the end of their mission, there'd be another, and another, and all those added up to a war. At the end of the war there was victory, and peace. And at the end of that...well at the end of all endings, there was a beginning.

Rondel closed her eyes, lights dancing behind them, and she smiled.

A beginning as strong as Gamorrean knife in her belt, as warm as the hand holding her own, as beautiful as the stars that raced by their ship.

A/N : a HUGE thank you to everyone who messaged/reviewed to let me know the editing was off! It was fine when I uploaded last night; then when I checked this morning, I saw all that html craziness. Thank you to everyone who read, followed, reviewed as this story progressed! Leave me one last review, so I know what you think?


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